


Absolution

by taradiane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taradiane/pseuds/taradiane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Voldemort's defeat, Harry is forced by his friends to come to terms with his self-hatred and guilt over Ron Weasley's death...with a little unwelcome help from Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychobarfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychobarfly/gifts).



> Written in summer of 2004. It was my first chaptered fic that I'd posted as a WiP, originally titled 'Under the Influence.' It is presented here in one shot because the chapters were fairly short. This is probably the most bitter and cruel Harry I've ever written, but as it was written post-OotP, it's no wonder that I gave this Harry more inner turmoil than I'd ever given him before. It was also the story that put me off posting fics that I had not finished in advance, as the story did not progress as originally intended (hence the title change, as the original one no longer seemed to fit). That said, I've edited/re-written a large chunk of this story (which was surprisingly easy to do ten years after the fact) to allow for better flow and a more cohesive character development.

"I don't think I've ever been so bored in all my life."

 

Harry turned around to lean his elbows against the bar, giving a distracted nod to Madam Rosmerta who refilled his glass.

 

"If you keep knocking back those Firewhiskeys like that, Harry, I'm sure boredom will be the last thing you feel."

 

Harry turned to glare at Remus, but softened at the sight of the wry smile on his friend's face. He was glad he had decided to ask Remus to accompany him, rather than playing the third wheel to Hermione and Dean. The Order liked to gather once a year for a reunion of sorts. This year it was at the Chewton Glen in Hampshire, a primarily Muggle establishment but the owners long ago begin allowing magical folk to partake of their services. Apparently some relative from long ago got a Hogwarts letter, and they saw a whole new clientele open up to them. Harry didn't even want to think about the logistics of keeping the Muggles in the dark, not when they were all under one roof.

 

Remus shifted his weight to his other leg, allowing their shoulders to rest against one another as Harry took another long draw from his glass.  
  
Remus was looking out at the amassed crowd, giving a wave to Dumbledore and the Weasley twins who stood in a far corner, looking as though they were all plotting something nefarious. Surprisingly, Harry had the distinct impression that Dumbledore was the instigator, and if Fudge was in the room then he would know exactly who the target would be.

 

Harry wasn't sure whose idea the reunion was. He wondered if it had been Hermione's, since it was technically too early for such an event...Voldemort had only been dead for four years - didn't they wait at least five years for this type of thing? Harry wasn't going to come. He had a vacation scheduled for the following week, and thinking of anything remotely related to Voldemort only made him think of Ron.

 

And thinking of Ron made Harry think of jealousy and betrayal.

 

And that just made him want to get completely smashed.

 

He had agreed after Hermione practically begged him to come, telling him that the hotel had a spa, complete with a masseuse staff and would be a "fantastic" start to his vacation. So, naturally, he felt compelled to assure Remus' presence at the reunion.

 

"I think I'm entitled to get drunk just this once. Besides, I'm on vacation - isn't that some kind of requirement?"

 

Harry sipped at his third shot of the evening, purely for Remus' benefit.

 

"I wouldn't know. I haven't had a proper vacation in, well, ever," Remus said, smoothing the front of his navy dress robes and letting his fingers toy with the shimmering charcoal trim.

 

Harry was glad that Remus had accepted the belated yet extravagant birthday gift. Harry had used the gift as a bit of insurance that his friend would come with him, and so played off the purchase as an overdue birthday gift. He was sure Remus knew better, as he had been able to read Harry like a book ever since Harry's breakdown during the summer before sixth year. Remus had saved Harry from himself during those few months, and Harry had clung to him like a vine ever since.

 

"The offer still stands, you know."

 

Remus flashed that wry grin again. "What, go to Venice with you and tag along as you pull bloke after devastatingly gorgeous Italian bloke? No thanks."

 

"Oh, c'mon Remus, think of all the amazing architecture you'll finally be able to see up close and in person, not to mention the historical museums." Harry turned his back to the bar, glancing out at the couples dancing on the parquet floor. "Besides, I'm not half the slut people think I am."

 

Remus nearly choked on his Butterbeer, spluttering in a sudden fit of laughter as he caught Harry's cheeky smile.

 

"I'd hardly call you a slut, Harry. Five boyfriends in two years doesn't make you a slut, it simply makes you...hard to please." Remus playfully nudged Harry in the ribs with his elbow. "You're only twenty-four, after all. It's still perfectly acceptable for you to be excessively picky."

 

"Tell that to the editors at Witch Weekly."

 

"You never told me specifically what it was about Seamus that made you give him the boot last month anyway. Care to elaborate?"

 

"The truth?"

 

"No, Harry, lie to me. You know how much I appreciate that."

 

Harry snorted, picking up one of the hors d'ouevres from the assortment on the bar and waving it suggestively in front of Remus.

 

"Really. A gherkin? That's too bad, really. I always heard the Irish were exceptionally well hung." Remus ran his index finger around the rim of his Butterbeer bottle with a suspiciously fond look on his face.

 

"Yeah, well, not that one. Not to mention, he was just...boring."

 

"Ah, well. That  _is_  the death knell where you're concerned. Say what you will about Harry Potter," Remus said, raising his glass, "but you can never say he's bor-"

 

Harry saw Remus' attention turn towards the main entrance of the ballroom, a slightly stunned look on his face, and followed his gaze.

 

"Well, well. Look who showed up," Remus muttered.

 

The one person whose distinct  _lack_  of appearance Harry was willing to bet galleons upon was standing in the doorway. Casually leaning against one of the ornate oak doors with his arms crossed, looking nearly as bored as Harry felt, stood Draco Malfoy, eyes scanning the room like a vulture seeking its prey.

 

"Oh joy," Harry grumbled, knocking back the rest of his shot and grimacing at the burn.

 

Remus looked sideways at Harry, eyebrows slightly raised in amusement.

 

"Do try and contain your excitement, Harry. He might think you're happy to see him."

 

Harry hated it when Remus used that sarcastic tone on him...the one that insinuated there was more than an ounce of truth behind his words.

 

"I specifically asked Hermione if he was coming, and she'd said no."

 

"Most likely because she knew you wouldn't come if she'd said yes."

 

Harry's brow furrowed as he scuffled his toe along the parquet floor, looking intently at his woefully empty shot glass. "She can be a deceitful little bint when she wants to be," he replied half-heartedly. He turned his back to the crowd once more, leaning his elbows against the bar and harshly tapping his fingers against the surface. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, letting his head fall forward.

 

"Why is this bothering you so much, Mr Cranky? You used to see him every day for seven years, and damn near every day for three years after that. One more night is hardly going to-"

 

"That's just it, Remus. I'm sick of him always... _being there_ , infecting the room with his...his... _Malfoyness_ ," Harry interrupted, sounding more bitter than he'd intended.

 

Remus laughed, causing a twinge of guilt to flare in Harry's stomach at his petulance.

 

"Harry! Remus! I've been looking for you two!"

 

Hermione practically skipped over toward the bar, ringlets from her upswept hair falling and spiraling down the sides of her neck, bouncing gently against her shoulders. She caught Remus in a tight embrace before giving Harry a fond look and wrapping her arms around his neck, placing a light peck on his cheek.

 

"Hey, Hermione. Dean." He tried to sound enthusiastic.

 

Harry nodded at his old dorm mate, Dean Thomas, who had placed his arm around Hermione's shoulders and grinned. Hermione and Dean had been together for nearly three years now, and married for just over one. He would have never paired the two together when they were in school, but Harry was surprised at what a good match they made. Dean, with his even-tempered manner, kept Hermione tethered to the ground when things got too intense. He had been an unexpected source of comfort for Hermione after Ron had unwittingly betrayed them all, and their fast friendship had developed into something much more.

 

"Hey, Remus, you catch that West Ham game on telly last Saturday?"

 

Dean walked around Hermione, letting his hand slide down Hermione's arm and entwining their fingers as he got wrapped up in his conversation with Remus about football. When Harry and Remus had briefly lived together after Voldemort's death, Harry had insisted they get a television. It took all of one weekend for Remus to get hooked on "Muggle Quidditch," as he'd called it, and whenever Hermione and Dean had come over for a visit, the two men would invariably start on who was going to best who in the next game.

 

Harry pulled Hermione a few steps away, her fingers still tangled with Dean's. "I thought you said he wasn't coming?"

 

"Who?"

 

"Malfoy," Harry said irritably.

 

"Oh, him," she waved her free hand nonchalantly, the bell sleeves of her ice blue gown swinging fluidly, "I didn't know. He never returned the RSVP from the invitation. I'm not surprised, though, he always was one to make an entrance. Or at least try to."

 

Harry watched Malfoy as he talked to two Ministry officials he couldn't recall the names of, and scowled. Hermione grabbed his chin, forcing his attention back toward her.

 

"Quit being such a baby, Harry."

 

"I'm not being a baby!" he said, huffily.

 

"Yes you  _are_  - pouting like a toddler who didn't get his way. Get over it, or get over him, and suck it up." Hermione released her hold on his chin, only to see his jaw drop in indignation.

 

"What the- what do you mean  _get over him_?"

 

"Nothing," she said, rolling her eyes. "Get me a drink, will you? Club soda with lime."

 

Harry narrowed his eyes at her abrupt change in subject, but then she grinned brightly at him and he watched her hand rest against the midsection of her empire waist gown. Harry took a deep breath, willing his nerves to cooperate and calm.

 

"Are you showing yet? I can't tell with that dress."

 

"No, not yet," Hermione said thoughtfully, "but mum says she didn't show with me until her fifth month, and I'm barely into my fourth."

 

Harry turned around, catching Madam Rosmerta's attention once again and ordering Hermione's drink as she relaxed next to him against the bar. She pushed against his shoulder playfully and leaned into him to whisper conspiratorially.

 

"So, has anyone managed to grab your romantic attentions lately? Tonight, maybe? You look quite fetching, you know. I always liked you in this."

 

Hermione let her fingers graze the deep green velvet trim of his sharply cut black robe. Harry had pulled it out of his closet at the last minute, deciding against the dark grey robe he'd actually bought for the occasion. Something about the colour had suddenly repelled him, and he cursed himself for having wasted money on the impulse buy to begin with.

 

"No, thank Merlin. I think men are more trouble than they're worth anymore."

 

"Oh, Harry," she laughed, patting his arm, "Don't you worry. There's someone out there for you yet."

 

"Yeah, well, keep him away if you see him."

 

Hermione's head turned slightly as her attention was caught by someone standing behind them. Harry watched a wide grin spread across her face as she turned around.

 

"Sorry, Harry, too late now," she said, just before reaching out her hand and saying amiably, "Hello, Draco."

 

Harry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as his spine stiffened in resolute anger.

 

"For the love of all that is holy," he muttered under his breath while Malfoy and Hermione greeted one another, slamming his empty shot glass on the surface of the bar and willing himself to not turn around.

 

His eyes shifted left to signal to Remus that he was about to make a quick exit, but found the space beside him empty.

 

Empty until Draco Malfoy sidled up next to him and spoke, that is.

 

"Potter."

 

Harry was too irritated with the fact that Madam Rosmerta wasn't looking in his direction so that he could order another drink to notice the subdued tone of Malfoy's greeting. He tapped his empty glass against the surface loud enough to get her attention, and signaled for a refill.

 

"My, aren't we talkative this evening."

 

Harry clenched his teeth as Malfoy made himself more comfortable, reaching for a spare napkin and wiping the watery rings from the bar before leaning his elbows against the hastily dried surface and adjusting his sleeves.

 

Malfoy was predictably clad in his signature ice grey colour, the silk making the lines of his robe flow like water even while standing still. A fine silver stitching trailed along the edges and fanning out into an intricate scroll pattern along the shoulders and edges of his sleeves, making it seem almost military in appearance. The high collar was accented with a small red dragon brooch, tiny onyx eyes glinting from the flames of the wall sconces scattered around the room.

 

"I'm surprised to see you here, Potter," Malfoy continued, sounding vaguely amused. "You never were one for tedious social occasions."

 

Madam Rosmerta finally returned with the bottle of Ogden's and started to pour.

 

"Leave the bottle," Harry said tersely.

 

"Well, well. I never pegged you for a drunkard, Potter." Malfoy shifted to move toward him. "I guess even saints have their vices."

 

Harry turned so fast he felt his glasses shift on the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowing in vehemence. "Can't you take a hint, Malfoy?"

 

The shiny red jewel at Draco's throat caught his attention, and Harry blinked, trying to remember when he'd ever seen the Slytherin wear anything that shade and feeling immaturely possessive of his House colour.

 

Sharp grey eyes bored into him, eyebrows slightly raised and punctuated by the smirk curving his mouth.

"Honestly, Potter, I only came over to say hello."

 

Harry turned his gaze back towards the wall, trying to concentrate on anything other than Malfoy's presence beside him and staring at the empty wineglasses and tankards lined up on the shelves. "No. You didn't."

 

"I didn't?" Malfoy asked with mock innocence.

 

"You came over here to goad me into an argument."

 

"I did?"

 

"Don't play innocent with me, Malfoy," Harry spat. "You'll never change. You're the same right fucking now as you were when we were eleven years old," he added, laughing virulently, "an arrogant, spoiled, sadistic little shit who loves taking cheap shots at people."

 

Malfoy's smirk disappeared, his lips forming a harsh line and something like hatred sparking in his eyes.

"Oh, don't hold back, Potter. Make your true feelings known," he bit back.

 

"Shove off, Malfoy," Harry said, knocking back another shot and pushing himself away from the bar with both hands. "No one wants you here anyway," he added, grinning cruelly and walking away.

 

He'd made it about four steps before he felt a tight grip on his elbow.

 

"Not so fast, Potter."

 

Harry's eyes went from the hand on his arm to the heavy-lidded gaze that seemed to shoot through him like that last shot of firewhiskey.

 

"When are you going to grow up?"

 

Malfoy having been the second person to say that to him that evening, Harry couldn't hide his indignance.

 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he raised his voice, grabbing Malfoy's hand from his elbow and throwing it off in disgust. "And don't touch me."

 

Malfoy sighed, rolling his eyes as the previous flash of anger seemed to disappear.

 

"My point, Potter - and I'll say this slowly in the hopes that it will penetrate that thick skull of yours - is that  _you_  seem to be the only one here holding onto childish grudges."

 

Malfoy straightened his shoulders in certitude, making him appear slightly taller than Harry.

 

"As you can see, no one else here seems to take issue with my attendance," he said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms across his chest.

 

"No, they're just more polite than I am. Lucky for you, I don't give a shit about  _your_  feelings and can be completely honest with you," Harry deadpanned.

 

"Potter, in the event that you ever decide to get over yourself, you might be a bit more pleasant to be around." There were the beginnings of a sneer forming at the edges of Malfoy's mouth.

 

"I'm leaving now. Is that  _okay_  with you?" Harry let the derision drip from his words before turning away from him.

 

"Incidentally, no. It's not."

 

"I wasn't actually asking your permission, Malfoy," Harry tossed over his shoulder as he headed toward the ballroom doors to leave.

 

"I wanted to talk to you about Weasley."

 

Harry froze mid-stride, a chill running down his spine and straight to the bottom of his feet. He slowly turned back around, feeling the blood rush from his head as he gaped at the nonchalant expression on Malfoy's face.

 

"You don't.  _Ever_. Say. That name. To me."

 

"It's just a name, Potter," Malfoy said quietly, taking the few steps to close the distance between them.

 

"Fuck you," he spat, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.

 

"I'd hoped to have this conversation somewhere private, but seeing as how you don't want to be seen leaving the room with me, I'll just say it here," Malfoy said, before taking a deep breath as though bracing for a blow. "You don't have to keep hating him."

 

All Harry could do was stare at Malfoy. Where did he get off saying such a thing to him? What did he know about _any_ of it? He wanted to yell; to shout, to say  _something_  to Malfoy that would make him physically hurt. However, all he could manage was an incredulous glare. He wasn't yet drunk enough to cause a scene, after all.

 

He'd never felt so weak in all his life.

 

Draco took one step closer, leaning in to discreetly whisper in Harry's ear. "I happen to know a thing or two about jealousy, Potter."

 

Draco paused, pulling back just enough to look in Harry's eyes and continued – apparently not caring that he'd most likely end up with a bloody lip when all was said and done.

 

"He said the wrong thing to the wrong person," Malfoy continued casually. "How was he to know that Zabini was my father's little pet project?"

 

Harry inhaled sharply, eyes unfocused and hearing the blood pumping through his veins in a dull roar. He took one ungainly step backward, then another. He saw Draco's hand rising to reach towards him before turning to flee, ignoring the stares from the people clustered around the double doors.

 

He walked swiftly through the entrance, not stopping until he reached the main hotel staircase leading to his top floor suite. Leaning against the banister and feeling the ornamental ivy crush beneath his grip, he felt his stomach heave. He hadn't spoken to anyone about Ron since the Ministry had questioned himself and Hermione about the betrayal three and a half years ago.

 

He especially didn't talk to Hermione about it, not since the huge row they'd had about it that same day. It wasn't for her lack of trying, either, but Harry would always shut the conversation down before it could even begin. He vowed never to speak to anyone about what happened with Ron, and he sure as hell wasn't going to break that vow for Draco sodding Malfoy.

 

He took two deep breaths before finally bounding up the staircase, not stopping until he reached his room. He fumbled with the keycard, needing three tries before sliding it properly into the slot, and slamming the door behind him before crumpling on his bed. He lay there dazedly, trying to push down the rage that was boiling up inside him - rage at Draco's audacity, and rage at Ron's betrayal.

 

The room was spinning slightly, his breaths coming in quick gasps as he fumbled at the fastening on the collar of his robes - as if it would somehow release this creature that had awakened inside him, setting it free. He felt the familiar salty burn at the corners of his eyes, inwardly cursing everyone and anyone that had told him it would be a good idea to come. His fingers finally pulled the clasp apart as he sat up abruptly, yanking the robe from his shoulders and tossing it onto the floor.

 

" _Fuck_!" he screamed, not caring about who might hear him.

 

He shut his eyes tightly, breathing deeply and trying to stifle the fire that burned in his belly. "He's not worth it, Harry. He's not worth it," he muttered to himself, not sure if he was referring to Draco or to Ron. Kicking his shoes off, he crawled farther up the bed and settled on his side, undoing the top few buttons on his dark green linen shirt. He didn't bother removing his glasses as he curled his body around the oversized bed pillow, his last thoughts spent on whether or not Remus would notice he was gone and letting the emotional exhaustion take over as he fell asleep.

 

~*~

 

Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when he heard the insistent knocking at his door. His eyes fluttered open, vision blurry from the displacement of his glasses against his face.

 

"Harry? Are you in there?" Hermione's muffled voice sounded vaguely panicked.

 

Sighing deeply, a vestige of irritation still lingering from his altercation with Malfoy, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed to rise.

 

"Coming," he mumbled, the continued knocking beginning to exacerbate the headache that was already brewing.

 

He stood, taking a second longer than normal to gain his footing, and straightened his glasses as he walked over to the door. Knowing that Hermione would likely pitch a fit if ignored, he opened the door prepared to placate his friend.

 

"You look like...well, are you all right?"

 

"I was just lying down." Harry tried to straighten his shirt a bit, hoping Hermione couldn't smell the liquor that he was sure still lingered on his breath.

 

"What are you doing in here?" she asked, letting herself into the room and setting her beaded handbag on the chair by the door.

 

Harry turned to make his way back over to the bed, sitting on the edge and using his forefingers to massage the sensitive flesh at his temples.

 

"You're drunk."

 

"No, I just drank too much. There's a difference."

 

"I could..." Hermione hesitated, just a moment before walking over to stand next to him. She pulled her wand from her sleeve, set it gently against the skin above his fingertip and whispered what Harry was convinced had to be the greatest charm in existence.

 

She sat down next to him, looking down at her lap as she smoothed the pearlescent fabric against her thighs. "I saw you talking to Draco," she said matter-of-factly.

 

Harry could hear the unasked question in her statement.

 

"It's _Draco_ now, is it?"

 

"It is his name."

 

"Becoming awfully chummy with him, aren't you?"

 

Hermione ignored his question, but Harry could see the flash of irritation cross her face.

 

"You had a conversation?"

 

"If you want to call it that," he laughed bitterly.

 

"What did he say?" Hermione looked at him now, and Harry could tell from the twitch in her fingers that she was fighting the urge to smooth his hair comfortingly. He'd snapped at her once two years ago for doing that when he was in a particularly foul mood, and she'd not done it since.

 

"Nothing," he sighed, feeling the muscles in his shoulders loosen as the full effects of the charm finally settled in his bloodstream.

 

"It didn't look like nothing to me, Harry," she said mildly. "You looked about five seconds away from popping a vein."

 

"Malfoy's an arse. He always will be." Harry grumbled, picking at his fingernails.

 

"He's not so bad," she added quietly.

 

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."

 

"Oh, come on, Harry." Hermione signed, kicking off her shoes and bringing her foot to rest her thigh as she massaged her toes. "Be a grown up for once and quit acting like you're still in fifth year with something to prove."

 

Harry looked at her, quirking an eyebrow and trying not to smirk. "I really wish people would stop insulting my maturity."

 

"Maybe if you had some, we would."

 

"Ouch," Harry grumbled, falling back against the bed as Hermione chuckled, his legs still dangling over the edge.

 

"Okay, so maybe that's a bit harsh, but let's face it - when it comes to Draco you have absolutely no sense of self-control and fly off the handle simply when he walks in the room."

 

"I do not!" He flung his arms out beside him in exasperation.

 

"Do too. And I'd wager you kind of like it, even." Hermione leaned back to lie next to him, her head resting against his outstretched arm, and smiled coyly. "Why, this has to be the most exciting event for you in well over a year, which, not at all coincidentally, happens to be the same amount of time that has passed since last you saw him."

 

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're sick. You know that, right?"

 

"He's really not as bad as you make him out to be. I mean, he's really quite clever once you get him started."

 

"I'd rather not start anything with Malfoy, if it's all the same to you."

 

"Pity, because I think he's been trying to start something with you for years." Hermione stated, deliberately not looking over for her friend's reaction.

 

Harry looked at her sideways, the idea that Hermione's words held more than one meaning trying to creep its way to the forefront of his mind.

 

"Meaning?"

 

"Oh, nothing," she said innocently.

 

_Too_ innocently.

 

Harry sat up abruptly, swiftly removing his arm from behind her head and caring not that she'd been jostled, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Not nothing. Spit it out, Hermione."

 

"I'm sure if you thought about it for a few moments, I wouldn't need to spit it out." She sat up, tucking stray curls behind her ears.

 

"I don't...that's just... _you're insane_." Harry scowled, now biting at his fingernails.

 

"Are you going to tell me what he said or not?" Hermione gently pried his hand away from his mouth.

 

"I think I'll go with not. Why are you so interested, anyway?"

 

"Well it must have been pretty bad for you to just walk away like that, instead of-" Hermione took in the tense shoulders and downcast eyes for the first time, the realisation hitting her sharply. "Oh."

 

"Yeah," he sighed irritably.

 

"I didn't think he'd...I'm sorry." She clasped her hands in her lap, the awkwardness palpable in the room.

 

"Don't apologise for that  _snake_."

 

"I'm not, I..." her voice quieted to just above a whisper, "I just never thought he'd mention him. To you, I mean."

 

"What do you mean, to  _me_?" Harry turned sharply to look at her, suspicion written all over his face.

 

"Harry-"

 

"I don't fucking believe this." He mumbled, his head bent down once more as he took off his glasses, tossing them carelessly onto the bedside table and running his hands over his face.

 

"Before you start jumping to conclusions-" She rested her hand gingerly against his shoulder, trying to calm him.

 

"I don't believe you!"

 

"Harry,  _listen_ -" Hermione's voice was pleading.

 

"Of all the people to talk to, of all the people to..." Harry shrugged her hand from his shoulder, not caring about the hurt that flashed in her eyes at the obvious rejection. "Hermione, _why him_?"

 

"It just...happened," she cried despondently. "He caught me at a bad time, and it's not like  _you_  ever wanted to talk about it." Her tone held a faint hint of accusation as the words rushed from her mouth. "You can't even say his name!"

 

"I don't need to talk about it, and quite frankly I don't understand why  _you'd_  bloody well want to either."

 

He refused to look at her, his blurry vision futilely focusing on the armoire along the opposite wall.

 

"He was our friend, Harry," Hermione said crossly. "Don't you even remember that? Ron Weasley? One third of the terrible trio that made Snape miserable for seven years?"

 

"Yeah, some friend. Petty, jealous, self-obsessed-"

 

"Harry, stop-"

 

"-good for nothing  _rat_  was what he turned out to be!" Harry's voice escalated as a dark anger boiled up inside him - an anger he'd pushed so far down inside he didn't think it would ever surface again. "He was no better than Peter fucking Pettigrew and  _I'm not sorry_ he's dead!"

 

Harry heard the crack before he felt it, stunned into silence as the flesh on his cheek began to burn. He looked up, not realising until then that she had stood up and was now looking down at him with a rage in her eyes he had never even known she could possess.

 

"Sometimes I don't think I know you at all, Harry Potter, and right now I don't  _want_  to know you," she spat, snatching her shoes from the floor by the ankle straps and moving towards the door.

 

She looked back at him, one hand on the door handle and the other wiping away furious tears before they could fall down her cheeks. He blinked dazedly, mind still reeling more from the rage inside him that had caused him to say what he had than from the slap that had followed it.

 

"He risked his life for you on more than one occasion and he was your friend once, whether you  _want_  to remember that or not." She opened the door, stopping at the threshold, her shoulders sagging in resignation. "I don't ever want to talk about this again - not with you."

 

And with that she was gone, the door shutting quietly behind her.

 

Harry swallowed, choking down the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He looked down to the floor, the absolute silence flooding his ears as his mind grappled with what had just happened. Hermione had never turned her anger on him before - not like that. As far as he knew, she'd only slapped two people in her life, and the other person just happened to be the subject of the conversation that had turned so ugly.

 

" _Why_  does everything have to lead back to sodding  _Draco_  bloody  _Malfoy_?" he asked the empty room, reaching for his glasses from the table and slipping them back on.

 

His eyes strayed to the handbag on the chair near the door, the enchanted beads sparkling in the dim lamplight, as he idly wondered when he'd be able to return it to her. Though not directly, Harry had had enough experience with Hermione's temper to know that now was not the time to go chasing after her.

 

Truth be told, he wasn't feeling particularly sorry for his comment about Ron, so any remorse he might try to express for it wouldn't seem genuine in the first place. "What was she expecting, anyway?" he thought. In the end, Ron had betrayed their friendship, and he didn't want to waste one ounce of sympathy on him for what happened.

 

Harry stood up, rolling his shoulders and arching his back slightly to lessen the knots that had settled in his muscles once more. He went over to the window, pushing back the cream muslin drapery and opening the latch on the window, intent on letting in the cool early evening air. He reached his hand around to his neck, kneading the flesh at the nape as he heard another knock at the door - a much softer, more reserved knock.

 

Not entirely sure he was ready to face Hermione just yet, he paused as he began heading for the door. A second knock came, shorter than the first but still soft, and he imagined his friend standing on the other side, meek and apologetic and maybe even ready to admit that he had been right all along - about Ron  _and_  Malfoy. He crossed the room in swift strides, opening the door with unabashed forgiveness in his eyes.

 

"Hermione, it's-"

 

Harry's expression hardened as he was greeted cordially by the blond standing in the hallway.

 

"May I come in?"

 

"No," Harry said as he began to shut the door in Malfoy's face.

 

A firm hand pressed against the oak to halt its closure. "I'll only be a moment, I promise," Malfoy said earnestly.

 

Harry paused, taking a deep breath. "Since when do Slytherins make promises?" His expression was flat, mind already made up to let the git inside to finally get what was coming to him. Harry had been waiting years to finally let loose on Malfoy, tired of censoring himself just for the sake of keeping someone else's peace - usually Dumbledore's.

 

Now seemed like the perfect time.

 

"We make promises all the time." Malfoy's retort was cool, sticking his chin out in mock defiance. "The question you  _should_  be asking is since when do Slytherins  _keep_  their promises. Honestly, Potter," Malfoy smirked, seemingly unfazed by the flat malice in Harry's eyes, "I thought I taught you better than that."

 

"By all means," Harry offered with a sneer, stepping aside and opening the door fully, "come on in."

 

~*~

 

Harry stepped back from the doorway just enough to let Malfoy into the room, purposely bumping his shoulder into the other man's unapologetically. A familiar scent followed him into the room, something Harry couldn't quite place as a wave of nostalgia washed over him.

 

Malfoy stopped in the middle of the room, looking around appraisingly before gazing out the now open window. "My room isn't as nice as yours, though I suppose that's to be expected."

 

"Meaning?" Harry asked, wishing Malfoy would turn toward him so he could see the look on the blond's face.

 

"Merlin forbid if The Boy Who Lived doesn't have a perfect view of the gardens." Malfoy slowly - finally - turned, looking at Harry as though he had every right to be in his room. "Granted, I have a balcony, so I suppose that makes up for it," Malfoy added, shrugging as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

 

Harry crossed his arms against his chest, the fingers of his right hand tapping against his elbow as he waited for Malfoy to state his purpose in coming.

 

Malfoy finally settled his gaze on him, cocking his head slightly. "I passed Miss Granger in the hallway and-"

 

"She's Mrs Thomas now," Harry bit out.

 

"Whatever," Malfoy waved away the interruption. "She looked quite upset."

 

"I'm shocked you'd notice," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

 

"I notice a lot of things, Potter."

 

"Except for the fact that you're not wanted here." Malfoy's lighthearted expression was grating on Harry's nerves.

 

"I didn't come uninvited - not to this reunion, and certainly not into your room," Malfoy chided, as if talking to a small child.

 

Harry's eyes narrowed at the patronising tone. "I doubt you would have walked away had I refused."

 

"Most likely not, but the point is you didn't." Malfoy brushed something off his left sleeve that Harry couldn't see, making the outline of Malfoy's wand briefly visible from where it was tucked inside.

 

Harry was thankful for the comforting press of eleven inches of holly against his side, tucked safely under the black leather belt.

 

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

 

Malfoy walked over to the small burgundy sofa that sat opposite the bed and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and tucking another stray lock of soft blond behind his ear, the repeated gesture only agitating Harry's annoyance.

 

"I want to call a truce," the Slytherin said, as if he was requesting a cup of tea.

 

Harry couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to tear into the one person he'd been craving to destroy since the first time his fist connected with Malfoy's jaw back in their fifth year. But this time, it wasn't enough for Harry to physically beat him down, now he wanted something more - something that would cut deeper. He wanted to hurt him, physically and mentally and every other way he knew how. Malfoy had made a veritable career out of hurting Harry and everyone that Harry loved - throwing racial slurs at Hermione, taunting Ron about his family and their finances, trying to get Hagrid fired from the one place that welcomed him without prejudice...and then there was Lucius Malfoy's involvement in Sirius' death.

 

Harry felt perfectly justified in placing the sins of the father upon Malfoy's head.

 

When Harry had first been told about Malfoy's allegiance, he hadn't said a word to anyone regarding his distrust or vehemence that Malfoy not be involved. He'd been summoned by Professor McGonagall to accompany her to Dumbledore's tower office, and when the stone phoenix moved aside to reveal Malfoy sitting in front of the Headmaster's desk with a surprisingly calm expression, the bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach. Professor McGonagall had to nudge him off the top step and into the office, and he stood there, jaw clenched, listening as Dumbledore informed him that Malfoy had been a part of the Order for upwards of five months, and had been passing them information regarding his father's activities with the other Death Eaters.

 

To Harry, this was just another betrayal to add to the list of things that had been kept secret from him.

Harry merely turned around and descended back down the staircase without even a nod of acknowledgement, the blood rushing in his ears as he heard the faint murmuring of disappointment in the Headmaster's familiar tones. As the stairwell entrance closed behind him, Harry swore that one day Malfoy would pay for all the times he had thrust himself into Harry's daily existence just to make his life miserable.

 

All the time that they had been a part of the same team, working for the Order, he'd been kept a safe distance from Malfoy. Dumbledore made sure of that after Harry had finally threatened to back out of their strategies altogether if he had to partner with the Slytherin. The Headmaster seemed a bit taken aback at the obvious attempt at manipulating the Order, the well-known fact of Harry's necessity in the plans to defeat Voldemort hanging in the air between them. Harry had felt the links in their chain of attachment weaken after that, and his relationship with Dumbledore had never quite been the same.

 

Remus had tried talking to Harry about burying his enmity towards Malfoy, at least temporarily, as it was causing a strain on those who worked closest to them. Harry had tuned him out once the word 'babysitting' was brought up in the one-way conversation. He didn't understand how anyone could take what Malfoy said at face value, and only acted on the Slytherin's information if another member of the Order, preferably Hermione or Remus, backed it up. Harry had left the conversation with the declaration that he'd rather just bury Malfoy under six feet of maggot-infested dirt and walked out of the room.

 

In the end, however, Harry had done what was requested of him where Malfoy was concerned and was begrudgingly grateful that Malfoy had never attempted to bait him into a fight. Eventually, Harry stopped looking for the opportunity as Malfoy spent less and less time in his presence, spending most of his time with Snape down in the Professor's private quarters as the two Slytherins worked on a potion to block the effect of Legilimens.

 

Harry had never quite mastered the art of blocking his thoughts and only had several new scars on his knees from collapsing on the cold, hard stone of the potions classroom to show for the effort. When Malfoy had finally announced that they'd finally worked out the exact formula, Harry only agreed to take it after it had been tested on the Headmaster himself.

 

Harry trusted Snape, but he'd never trust Malfoy, and the fact that Malfoy had helped was reason enough for him to demand another guinea pig for their potion.

 

But now, with all those obligations past and the two of them here alone, Harry wanted to make Malfoy ache. He wanted him to feel even just a modicum of what Harry had been feeling all these years, and he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to inflict pain. Malfoy _deserved_  to feel pain, loss, pity, and emptiness.

 

"You want a truce." Harry couldn't stop a disbelieving laugh from escaping.

 

"Yes." Malfoy stood up, crossing his arms and mirroring Harry's pose.

 

"Too fucking bad."

 

Malfoy dropped his arms to his side, shoulders slumping slightly as if disappointed. "I won't say I expected more from you than vulgarities, but-"

 

"But nothing, Malfoy," he interrupted, narrowing his eyes. "You see, for me to agree to this truce is to assume that you have some  _meaning_  in my life - that there is a worthwhile reason for me to  _want_  to enter into this agreement," Harry berated, the first flash of hurt in Malfoy's eyes spurring him on further. "You mean  _nothing_  to me, Malfoy. You  _are_  nothing. You're  _nobody_."

 

"Is that so?" Malfoy's voice was quiet and subdued.

 

Harry knew he'd struck a nerve, and he could feel the blood coursing through his veins, adrenaline pumping.

 

"You think you're important, that you somehow  _mean_  something to those people downstairs." Harry took a step closer, leaning forward conspiringly as if about to divulge a secret. "You don't," he laughed bitterly, "you were  _used_  just like I was, and if you dropped dead tonight no one would give a shit next week."

Harry leaned back again, satisfied at the glare he was receiving and not bothering to hide his grin. "Your father probably died regretting that he ever spawned such a disappointing hypocrite as yourself."

 

Malfoy bowed his head, staring at the floor for a moment before raising his eyes again, his expression hardened and betraying no emotion. "Does it make you feel like the better man to say these things, Potter?"

 

Harry feigned contemplation, rubbing his chin with his forefinger. "Yeah, actually it does - not that I need to say anything at all to feel like the better man in your presence."

 

"Well allow me a moment to straighten something out for you," Malfoy said flatly.

 

"Oh, please do." Harry walked backward a few paces, never dropping Malfoy's gaze as he sat casually in the chair by the door, pushing Hermione's handbag onto the floor carelessly and looking at Malfoy with amusement.

 

"First of all, your assumption that I care what my father thought of me is so far off the mark that it's almost amusing." Malfoy's eyes were downcast once more, his lips tightening into a thin line before continuing. "All it does is demonstrate just how little you know about me."

 

Harry's harsh, caustic laughter filled the room, stopping abruptly when Malfoy continued.

 

"But I suppose you were too busy brooding and crying 'woe is me' to bother getting to know anyone outside your little circle of friends." He looked sharply at Harry, his eyes bright but unreadable.

 

"I got to know the people who were  _worth_  getting to know, Malfoy."

 

Malfoy cleared his throat quietly. "You apparently had pretty poor judgement where one of them was concerned, didn't you, Potter."

 

Harry jumped up, lunging at Draco and knocking him to the floor, pinning pale arms to the floor in a fierce grip as he straddled the other man's hips. Malfoy's eyes were wide, mouth gaping in shock at the unexpected attack.

 

"You worthless piece of shit," he growled, Malfoy's skin feeling incredibly hot underneath his palms, "don't you ever speak about him to me again or I swear to Merlin I'll knock your fucking teeth down your throat!" Harry lifted Malfoy's wrists, slamming them back down against the floor.

 

Harry saw ire flash in the grey eyes just before Malfoy lifted his head, butting against Harry's forehead hard enough to startle him and taking the advantage by rolling them over and reversing their positions. Harry lay flat on his back, glasses askew and looking dazed as Malfoy scrambled up off the floor and pressed his boot against Harry's chest to prevent him from rising.

 

"This is over. I'm through with you, Potter," he panted, blowing the tousled fringe out of his eyes as he punctuated his declaration with another shove of his boot against Harry's chest. "Congratulations on managing to piss off everyone who cares about you with your vaulted assumptions that the world  _owes_  you something," he added, then masking his face in mock sympathy. "The only people left around you are there out of pity." Draco straightened the collar of his robe and ran trembling fingers through his hair. "Enjoy it while you can, because pity never lasts."

 

Draco turned toward the door, moving two paces before Harry vaulted up from the floor, sprinting across the room to block his escape.

 

"This isn't over. Not by a long shot," he bit out angrily, gripping the doorknob until his knuckles turned white.

 

They stared at each other, both still breathing heavily from their tussle on the floor.

 

"What's your damage, Potter?" He slammed Harry up against the door, fingers pressing into the contours of his shoulders. "I'm offering to walk out of your life forever. Consider it a gift and  _move_."

 

"I'm not fucking finished," he snarled, leaning closer until he could feel Malfoy's breath against his skin. "I want you to  _hurt_ , Malfoy. I want you to hate as much as I do," he said, voice low through gritted teeth.

 

Malfoy took a step closer, his fingers loosening their grip to slide down and grasp Harry's elbows.

 

"Hate  _what_?"

 

"Hate  _you_  and every word that comes out of that perfect little mouth," he hissed, just before leaning forward and grabbing Draco's lower lip with his teeth and biting down...hard.

 

He watched the shock turn to pain in Malfoy's eyes, refusing to let go until the tip of his tongue tasted that rich, coppery tang it was so desperately seeking as the other man let out a whimper and tried to pull back. Harry leaned in further, pressing his mouth fully against Malfoy's and releasing just long enough to bite down again, wanting to punish those lips for every cruel word that spilled from them, his tongue thirsty for blood.

 

_Bite him, make him bleed, make him hurt... the little fucker deserves to hurt...always opening his mouth when he needs to keep it shut...should have never spoken to me, should have never dared to come up here...I'll make him sorry..._

Malfoy raised his hands to Harry's face, his thumbs pressing against smooth skin as his nails dug into the flesh of Harry's neck as he pushed forward in retaliation. He slammed Harry's head into the door, trying to loosen Harry's hold, and Harry reaching up a hand to press against the back of Malfoy's neck, pulling him impossibly close, determined not to let go until Malfoy begged for release. He felt Malfoy's mouth open beneath his, felt a seeking tongue running along the line where his teeth were digging into his flesh. Grey eyes disappeared behind pale skin and long lashes as Harry tasted something other than blood that he couldn't identify...sweet yet bitter, and suddenly he wanted more.

 

He let go of Malfoy's bottom lip, thrusting his tongue into the soft heat, invading and demanding to be given what he didn't even know he had wanted but needed to  _take_ , his mind blanking out on everything but the addictive feel and taste of Malfoy's mouth. Harry felt the fingers around his neck loosen, Malfoy's lips moving against his hesitantly as Harry continued to punish his mouth unrelentingly. 

 

_Make him hurt...make him cry out, begging for forgiveness...make him see - feel - how worthless he is...suck the soul from his body..._  

 

Hewanted to tear away the fabric that separated his fingers from that incredibly perfect skin, wanting to carve his name into the creamy flesh like so many of Umbridge's lines, wanting to dive into that sleek, lithe body and tear it open from the inside-out. He wanted to break Malfoy beyond the point of repair. 

His eyes closed as Malfoy's hands reached up and wrenched the glasses from his face, up and over his head, their lips never breaking contact. He heard them being tossed carelessly onto the floor before warm hands wrapped around his arms, Malfoy lifting them to rest atop his own shoulders in some semblance of an embrace. He took Malfoy's cue without a second thought, wrapping his arms roughly around the other man and letting his bruising fingers rake down the length of Malfoy's back, nails catching on the supple fabric as firm hands dug into his own hips and pressed their bodies close. 

 

_Take him...break him...own him...make him beg..._  

 

Harry's ears finally registered the slick sounds of tongue sliding against tongue; lips moving in tandem with the intent to devour. 

 

_Stop, stop, stop...something's gone wrong...this isn't how it should feel...why isn't he crying, begging..._  

 

And even as the kiss deepened, the knowledge slammed into him that this was no longer about wanting punishment or blood, but about wanting  _Draco._

 

Hot, smooth fingers skirted along the waistband of Harry's trousers, and he had no intention of halting their progress as they dipped inside. 

 

~*~

 

Harry rolled over onto his back and idly rubbed his sweat-slickened abdomen, panting. He felt his elbow brush against the forearm of the blond lying beside him and suddenly felt awkward at their proximity, despite their nakedness and the hour they'd just spent moaning…begging…caressing—

 

"Well," Malfoy breathed, stretching his arms out above his head.

 

Harry turned his head towards the door, secretly grateful for the interruption of thoughts he certainly had no business having, wondering how on earth an Order reunion at a hotel in Hampshire had ended with him lying next to Draco Malfoy in this overpriced suite.

 

Not to forget the issue of nudity.

 

Harry's mind urged him to flee, but his legs weren't cooperating in the slightest. In fact, he was rather surprised he'd even had the strength to roll out from between Malfoy's thighs to begin with - the waves of The World's Longest Orgasm were still rippling along his flesh.

 

Christ, they'd been in the midst of a horrendous row, rolling around on the floor like a couple of first years, and then…

 

Trying to steady his breath, Harry felt the other man shift against the pillow and raise himself to look down at him, obviously seeking Harry's attention. He avoided Malfoy's gaze, looking instead at the ceiling and wondering how the hotel could justify charging three hundred and sixty-five pounds per night when there were bits of plaster missing from the Trompe L' Oeil. His mind was trying to formulate the least embarrassing escape, despite the fact that he would look a bit silly running from his own room.

 

"Potter?"

 

Harry gave a non-committal grunt in response, shutting his eyes tightly.

 

"Harry?" Malfoy asked quietly this time.

 

That got his attention. Even their own lustful ramblings had been more along the lines of, " _Oh god, Malfoy_ ," and " _Yes, Potter, right there_." He couldn't help his eyes from locking on Malfoy's, his surprise evident.

 

He wished he hadn't.

 

An impressive bruise was blossoming across the left half of Malfoy's bottom lip, and Harry's detached thoughts reminded him that he had done that. Malfoy'd had him pressed against the back of the door, their kisses wet and sloppy and frantic, when his less than warm fingers suddenly found their way into Harry's trousers and squeezed firmly around the already hardened flesh. Harry thought the only appropriate recourse was to bite, and Malfoy's moan indicated that he hadn't taken issue with the delicious punishment either. It was the echo in his mind of that very moan that stirred his arousal against his will, and he turned his gaze back toward the door, blinking slowly.

 

"So it's going to be like _that_ , is it?"

 

Harry sat up, turning his back to Malfoy and carding long fingers through his hair. He heard an exasperated and slightly disgusted sigh from behind him, and felt the mattress give as Malfoy stood up from the bed. He chanced a peek in his direction and saw obvious red marks on the backs of Malfoy's thighs, earned when Harry had held them up and open, pounding into him forcefully. He remembered those same thighs trembling slightly just before Malfoy came, inevitably wrapping tightly around his waist as Harry finished himself off.

 

He just needed to quit looking at bloody Malfoy, is what he needed to do.

 

"You know what your problem is, Potter?" The name was spit out this time, as it had been among the hallways of Hogwarts. "Your problem is that you're still too fucking self-righteous for your own good."

 

Harry could picture Malfoy standing behind him, probably with his hands on his hips, sneering that impossible sneer…and naked.

 

Delightfully naked.

 

_Deliciously_ naked.

 

Harry cursed his traitorous mind.

 

"You're probably still under this misguided delusion that I actually joined the Order for _you_ , or for your sanctimonious views about the way the world should be. You're so wrong it's laughable."

 

Harry willed himself not to turn and glare, because that would mean staring at naked Malfoy, and he didn't trust himself to do that at the moment without further embarrassing himself.

 

"You don't have one sodding clue about why I did it, so don't you _dare_ presume to think that you do."

 

He could hear the shuffling of clothes, and silently thanked the gods above that Malfoy was apparently getting dressed and leaving. Never mind that it was nearly three in the morning and he wasn't even sure he wanted Malfoy to leave. He heard his door slam and turned to look behind him, seeing one set of robes missing from the floor. Moments later, the sound of Malfoy's hotel door, just three rooms down the hallway from his own, slammed shut, its echo filling the room as Harry fell back against the rumpled sheets, trying to work out exactly how he had gotten himself into this situation.

 

Harry stared up at the trompe l'oiel ceiling, one arm laying across his stomach as the other stretched out across the rumpled sheets. He sighed heavily, the idea of a long hot bath skirting along his consciousness as the thoughts and memories of the past twenty-four hours each fought for dominance at the forefront of his mind.

 

He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or scream. Draco Malfoy was just three doors down, probably in his shower, washing off the remnants of sweat, saliva, and sex from his marked skin as he, Harry Potter, lay in the bed they had shared. Though exactly what happened in that bed included everything  _but_ sharing - Harry had taken, over and over, giving Draco nothing of himself, even as the blond willingly gave everything over to Harry.

 

It was in his eyes...the grey, curtained glare giving way to something much more honest as Harry pushed his way inside that all too eager body beneath him. His irritation at Malfoy's ardency, giving Harry more than he was demanding, eventually gave way to feelings that ran far deeper than Harry ever wanted to go...feelings that he hadn't acknowledged since his fifth year.

 

That was the year he'd first developed a crush on another boy. That boy just happened to be Draco Malfoy.

 

The thought of having to face the other man the following day was unthinkable. He couldn't face Malfoy; couldn't face the man he'd just treated so cruelly, so rancorously, and he definitely couldn't face Malfoy while sudden and unwelcome thoughts from long ago began to swim their way through the murky waters of his memories.

 

Harry pulled on his trousers, slid his arms through the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt, quietly shut the door behind him, and rushed down the hallway in his bare feet to get as far from Draco Malfoy as he could.

 

~*~

 

The cup of tea that sat before him had gone cold hours ago. Moonlight shined through the window, emphasizing the pockmarks in the worn mahogany kitchen table as Harry sat. Picking at the imperfections of the wood with his jagged fingernail, he stared blankly at the dying flames in the brick fireplace and thought about the night that, though was only four days ago, felt like a lifetime.

 

Harry had left his hotel room in the middle of the night, barefoot and wanting desperately to avoid having to face Malfoy after the way he'd treated the man. He had hidden out in the deserted hotel lobby, sitting on the stiff upholstered chair by the corner lift and ignoring frequent glances from the night clerk, waiting for what Harry to decide whether or not to tell Remus or Hermione about his sudden departure (though most definitely leaving out the reason _why_ ).

 

He lingered, fingers idly tapping against the armrest as he thought of what Venice would look like at this time of year...beautiful sunsets and lovers holding hands in the Piazza St. Marco, artists lined up along the canals with their charcoals and sketchpads. It was suddenly the last place he wanted to be. Assailed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness, Harry found himself craving the comforts of home, where he could brood in peace and try to figure out exactly how he had let his life become such an empty shell.

 

He'd come to the sudden decision to delay his vacation to Venice and simply go home. What better place to hide out than the one place you've told everyone you wouldn't be, he had reasoned.

 

Finally deciding that simply leaving for home without notifying anyone the simplest thing to do, Harry assured the clerk that there had been nothing wrong with the accommodation or service, checked out, and Apparated to his home on the outskirts of Alnwick. Since he had arranged to leave for Venice that day anyway, Harry knew that Remus would assume he'd already left when his absence from breakfast was noticed. It saddened Harry that he knew neither Remus nor Hermione would not expect him to say goodbye - say goodbye to his friend - because that was the person that Harry had become.

 

And it wasn't as if Hermione would have wanted to see him anyway, not after what happened. Leaving without a word was definitely the best way of it.

 

~*~

 

A quick glance at Harry's bedside clock told him it was just after 4am, and he let himself fall into bed without caring what time he would awaken.

 

Harry had slept for nearly sixteen hours that first day. He woke up with a horrendous headache for which he had no potion, and after consuming one cup of milky earl grey tea and one piece of marmalade toast, he'd crawled back into bed for another eleven hours of sleep. His dreams were forgotten as soon as he'd come to consciousness; nothing horrible enough to rouse him from his slumber in a cold sweat like they used to, but whatever they'd been about, the hidden images left him feeling strangely displaced, as though he should be somewhere else.

 

The first few days of his self-imposed solitude were simple: wake up, have tea and toast, watch telly or read a book, then he'd finish out his day by sitting in his back garden. He'd watch the dusky clouds in the sky meld together as memories flooded his mind; memories of Hogwarts, memories of friendship, and memories of Ron.

 

One memory in particular, one of the darkest days of his seventh year, kept itself planted at the forefront of his mind.

 

~*~

 

"Harry, wait, you don't understand!" Ron ran up behind him, panting from his sprint across the grounds to where Harry stood by the lake.

 

Harry turned to look at him, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "You're right, I don't understand! How the hell could you be so stupid?"

 

"It was...I didn't...it just slipped out! I was half-drunk and you'd-"

 

"I what? _What_ , Ron?" Harry yelled, "What did I do that made you go and blab your  _big, fat mouth_  about the potion to  _Blaise fucking Zabini_? His  _father_  is Lucius Malfoy's goddamned lapdog!"

 

"He was just there, all right!" Ron shouted back, shoulders shrugging in desperate defense. "He was there, baiting me and talking about how...how you  _weren't_  and I was sick and tired of you always shoving me off so you could spend your _precious_ time with that greasy git Snape and his little toady, Malfoy!" Ron folded his arms across his chest, glaring at Harry.

 

Harry laughed bitterly. "Oh isn't that just rich. I, Harry Potter,  _dare_  to not put Ronald Weasley at the forefront of my attentions and you go off  _crying_  like a kicked puppy that-"

 

"Fuck you!" Ron muttered through clenched teeth. "You've practically been ignoring me  _full-stop_  for months now, and every time I've tried to talk to you, to get  _you_  to talk to  _me_  about what's been going on, you've blown me off like I'm nobody!" Ron was screaming now, "Like I  _wasn't_  your best friend who's stuck by you through  _everything_ , risked my own sodding  _life_  for you!"

 

"Do you think I like being down there in that bloody dungeon with them? Do you think I like being their personal guinea pig, making me drink that vile shit just so Voldemort can't creep into my mind and turn me into a killer like him?  _Do you_!" Harry took a deep breath, his throat aching from the strain of yelling. "Do you remember what it was like when  _your dad_  was attacked two years ago and I thought  _I'd_  done it? Do you have  _any idea_  what that was like for me? Some things are more important than even  _you_ , Ron."

Harry heard Ron gasp, his lips thinning to a harsh red line before he spoke again.

 

"Yeah, well maybe you should find a damn family of your own, then, if we're not good enough for you!"

 

Harry's vision went scarlet with rage, and it took his last ounce of willpower to turn away before he lashed out at the one person he always thought would be his best friend.

 

As he walked along the curve of the lake to reach the school, he could hear Ron yelling despairingly behind him...telling Harry he didn't mean it and that he was sorry.

 

Harry stopped and turned, looking at Ron as he stood there, his long arms flailed out from his sides in exasperation.

 

"You betrayed us, Ron," he said furiously. " _All of us_. Don't you  _ever_  fucking forget that."

 

Harry watched Ron's face turn ashen, mouth gaping at the unexpected pronouncement, then turned away from the first friend he ever had. He swore to himself then and there that he'd never forgive Ron Weasley.

 

~*~

 

The next day, Hagrid had found Ron's bloodless body along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His killer was never discovered.

 

He had never spoken to anyone about their fight by the lake. He couldn't. No one else would understand – Harry barely understood it himself, looking back.

 

Harry wondered if that had been the moment when he'd shut down. Oh, he trusted Remus and Hermione...to an extent. But he had swiftly built up a wall around himself after Ron's death. Harry started keeping secrets from everyone, even Remus, who had been his greatest friend of all after Sirius' death. His hopes and fears - his innermost feelings - were locked away in a place that no one could ever breach.

 

He was living his life as if it were someone else's that he was merely taking care of until the real Harry Potter returned. He slept, ate, took care of this body and all its base, human needs, and that was that. Anger and guilt and boredom seemed to be what he existed on - even his job at the Ministry, chasing down rogue Death Eaters and the occasional terrorist sect of Wizards who got it in their heads to be the next Dark Lord, was a pendulum between emotions. After every raid he'd spend weeks buried under a mountain of paperwork, hoping for that next adrenaline rush to rescue him.

 

He wasn't even a very good Auror. Harry lacked that one crucial trait that made one good at that sort of job - a healthy dose of fear. He couldn't be scared. Nothing frightened him anymore. Once during a raid, Walden MacNair had held a wand to his temple and told him he was about to be eviscerated, and Harry had  _laughed_. He was lucky that his reaction had thrown the executioner off his guard long enough for Harry's back-up team to be able to take their shot and capture MacNair. He'd been read the riot act by the Minister himself for being overly arrogant in the risks he took, despite their small victory.

 

And so he existed, day to day, playing the parts he was expected to play depending on the company he kept. He was still Harry Potter, still had his friends (at arm's length), and still graced the pages of the Daily Prophet on a regular basis. He still did his civic duty by keeping the Wizarding World safe from harm, and would still put his life on the line for Hogwarts if Dumbledore asked him to. The fact that he didn't find his life as having much value in the first place was neither here nor there.

 

That was his greatest secret. Life and death - it was all the same to him. Death is but the next great adventure, Dumbledore had once said to him, and Harry was always up for a little adventure.

 

~*~

 

Twice he had fallen asleep out in the garden, the slats from the oak rocking chair marking the backs of his thighs. On one such morning, five days after he'd returned home, he glanced at them in the mirror and was reminded of the pale bruises that he'd marked Malfoy with that night in the hotel...his fingerprints against that porcelain skin, ruining its perfection with their harsh purpling bruises.

 

That next night, he'd scarcely fallen asleep when he was awoken by his own gasping, his fists clenching the thin cotton sheet that was now tangled around his wrists as he came.

 

_Fingers intertwined in a tight grip, tongues tasting the sweet skin offered up before them, thighs trembling, teeth biting, throats moaning..._

Harry pulled the now-sticky linen from his skin, balling it up and throwing it into the laundry basket by his bedroom door. Slightly dazed, more from the orgasm itself than the actual dream that prompted it, he stood and walked into his adjacent bathroom. He turned on the light, squinting at the sudden brightness, and stood at the counter trying to bring himself back to reality.

 

The dream had felt so  _real_. Malfoy's fingers pressing into his skin, gripping his arms as Harry drove into him, over and over. Harry could still feel Malfoy wrapped around him, and his over-sensitized skin still tingled from the memory of that touch.

 

He leaned over, turning on the tap to splash cold water on his face, rubbing at his eyes.

 

"Stupid, sodding Malfoy," he muttered, running wet fingers through his disheveled hair. "Why can't you just go away?"

 

He shuffled sleepily over to the shower, turned the knobs and stepped beneath the steaming spray, letting the water cascade down his scalp, over his shoulders, and down his back. He felt every droplet as it made its journey down his body...curving around the flesh of his backside and down his thighs, pooling at his feet and swirling down the drain. He was still aroused, frustration mingled with disgust washing over him as images of the blond flashed in lewd succession in his mind's eye.

 

Cursing himself, he let one hand trail down his chest and hip to wrap around his cock, squeezing the swiftly hardening flesh as he stroked slowly. Shutting his eyes tightly, he let his imagination take him to where it so desperately wanted to go...grey eyes, lush pink lips, and silky blond hair appearing before him.

 

Harry thought a lot about Malfoy after that.

 

~*~

 

"Harry. Harry, wake up."

 

A soft hand gently prodded his forearm in an attempt to jostle him from his slumber. His eyelids fluttered as he turned his face away from the pillow in which it was pressed, pink lines from the creases in his linen marring his left cheek. The late afternoon sun warmed the bare skin of his back as he felt the mattress dip beside him, a cool hand resting atop his shoulder.

 

"C'mon, Harry, wake up." Remus stood, walking over toward the bay window on the other side of Harry's bedroom.

 

"Remus?" Harry said groggily, eyes adjusting to the bright light that flooded the room as Remus tied the curtains back.

 

"That would be me, yes."

 

"What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?" Harry turned over on his back, pushing himself up and leaning on his elbows, squinting up at Remus as he walked back over toward the bed.

 

"I guessed you'd be home."

 

"Oh." Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "You were looking for me?"

 

"Yes, after my interesting chat with Draco Malfoy."

 

Harry didn't bother to hide the grimace on his face. "Oh."

 

"My, aren't we verbose this afternoon," Remus chuckled softly.

 

"Look, Remus-" Harry stared, a hint of irritation in his voice.

 

"Come, Harry," Remus interrupted, "have some tea with me."

 

Harry let himself flop back on the mattress, moaning at the unwelcome wake-up call and the promise of what was sure to be a lecture.

 

"Take a shower, get dressed, and join me in the kitchen."

 

Remus shut the bedroom door behind him, and Harry cursed himself for not locking his Floo when he'd decided to hide out here rather than go to Venice.

 

~*~

 

Harry walked into the kitchen wearing just a t-shirt and his pajama bottoms, hair still wet from his second shower in less than six hours. Harry couldn't stop thinking about what he'd let happen during his first shower in the early hours of the morning, but thankfully did not repeat the incident.

 

The light scent of lemon filled the small kitchen. There was a small fire being stoked by his friend, and Harry noticed the kitchen was cleaner than last he'd left it.

 

"I took the liberty of washing the pile of dishes that was growing in the sink."

 

"Oh, erm, yeah thanks. Sorry. I wasn't expecting company." Harry kept most of the bitterness out his voice on that last sentence.

 

"That was obvious enough by the fact that you were asleep at one in the afternoon, Harry."

 

"Didn't sleep well."

 

"Something on your mind? Someone, perhaps?" Remus sat down at the table, patting the space across from him and levitating the pot of tea and teacups from the counter.

 

"What the hell were you talking to Malfoy for?" Harry said gruffly, shuffling his way to the table and collapsing in the chair across from Remus.

 

"I ran into him and Hermione in Diagon Alley yesterday."

 

Remus poured them both a cup of tea. Harry could tell from the slightly floral aroma that it was earl grey, his favourite.

 

"Hermione? What, are they best friends now or something?" Harry's eyes narrowed, remembering the fight he'd had with her at the hotel just before Malfoy found his way into his suite.

 

"Apparently that was a chance meeting as well."

 

Harry didn't like the slight smile that Remus was sporting.

 

"How convenient. They were probably comparing notes on what an arsehole I am." Harry poured an obscene amount of sugar into his tea before passing the server back to Remus.

 

"Are you?" Remus laughed.

 

"Am I what?"

 

"An arsehole?"

 

"Very funny."

 

Harry thought it was too early in the morning for jokes about his apparent lack of sound character.

 

"It's a legitimate question," his friend smirked.

 

Harry looked across the table at Remus, seeing something in the amber eyes that was all too serious.

 

"What are you doing here, Remus?"

 

"Can't an old friend drop by to check up on you?"

 

Harry knew Remus better than to think it was just a casual visit. There was an ulterior motive and Harry wasn't in the mood to play twenty questions.

 

"Even when it's obvious enough that I wanted to be left alone?"

 

Remus' expression turned serious. "Sometimes what you want isn't necessarily what is best for you."

 

"I'm not fourteen anymore."

 

"Could've fooled me," Remus said, clasping his hands together and resting them in his lap.

 

Harry gasped indignantly. "Sod off!"

 

Remus cocked his head slightly. "Harry, I've known you for over half your life."

 

"What's your point?" Harry muttered, toying with the spoon in his teacup.

 

"My point is that you're wasting it," Remus said gently, leaning forward to draw Harry's gaze toward him. "You're wasting your parents sacrifice by keeping yourself so damned miserable."

 

"You think I want things to be this way?" Harry said imploringly, louder than he had intended and feeling a pang of guilt for having raised his voice.

 

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

 

Remus cleared his throat. "Tell me what happened with Draco."

 

"What, Malfoy didn't tell you himself?" Harry spat, "I'm shocked he had the restraint, the loud-mouthed pillock."

 

"We talked, yes, but not everything is about you. He mostly talked about himself." Remus' tone was very matter-of-fact.

 

"So what else is new," Harry rolled his eyes.

 

Silence filled the room once more, and Harry wondered if he shouldn't just get up and go back to bed.

 

"Harry," Remus said hesitantly.

 

"What," he sighed.

 

"I saw him."

 

"Saw who?"

 

"Draco."

 

"Is there an echo in here?" Harry shot back sarcastically.

 

Remus sat back in his chair, waiting for Harry to look him in the eye. "I saw him leaving your room that night."

 

Harry felt all the blood leave his face, a deep chill reverberating from his chest and spreading to his extremities.

 

"Oh."

 

"Indeed." Remus sipped his tea, and Harry could tell his friend was holding back.

 

"Well then I suppose you've already figured it out for yourself then, haven't you," he said bitterly, roughly shoving his teacup away from him and watching it nearly tip over onto the table. "There's no point in talking about it."

 

"Don't presume to tell me what I'm thinking." Remus' tone was firm, his irritation finally coming through. "And don't presume I won't pop you one for being so belligerent. I may not be your parent, but I am your friend and at the moment you're not very deserving of that."

 

"Then go! No one is keeping you here! I didn't even invite you!" He punctuated his words with his fist banging against the table, rattling the china.

 

Remus raised his eyebrows in disbelief before settling back against his chair once more, smoothing out his well-worn robe and sighing.

 

"Isn't it exhausting, Harry?"

 

Harry glared at him. "What?"

 

"Hating so much."

 

Harry said nothing, his teeth clenched as he felt his breaking point bubble to the surface.

 

"I know I'm not your favourite person right now, and maybe it was wrong of me to barge in here like this, uninvited, but I-"

 

Harry stood up suddenly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and let out a beleaguered sigh as he tried to stuff his anger back inside. His shoulders slumped, he walked over to the fireplace, back turned toward his friend, and looked down into the flames.

 

"Harry," Remus said kindly, "I want to help you. Any way that I can."

 

"You can't help me."

 

"In the end, no I suppose I can't. But if you would just talk to me-"

 

"Talking doesn't help." The defeat poured from every syllable. "It's a waste of time."

 

"You used to talk to me all the time," Remus said quietly, "After Sirius died."

 

"And it did no good. It didn't bring him back, did it."

 

Remus stood, bridging the gap between them as he stood across from Harry at the fireplace. "No. No it didn't."

 

Harry's gaze fell to the floor, looking every bit as Remus remembered from that day in the Department of Mysteries after Sirius fell through the veil.

 

"People die, Harry. You know that better than most. Sirius, Ron, your parents...it'll be my turn eventually." Harry looked at him with a pained expression, and Remus gently settled his hand against Harry's chest, "But  _you_  have to keep on living."

 

"Maybe it makes me feel alive," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

"So can love, if you let it."

 

Harry couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped him. "That's so cliché."

 

"Most of them are rooted in truth, yes," Remus smiled, dropping his hand. "I suppose that's how they become cliché to begin with."

 

Harry grinned tersely before biting his bottom lip, working the flesh between his teeth for a few moments.

 

"What happened with Draco?" Remus prodded gently.

 

"It was...it wasn't anything, really," Harry started, "just..."

 

"Sex?"

 

"Yes."

 

Harry exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes tightly and running his fingers through his hair.

 

"Hmm."

 

Harry looked at Remus, eyes narrowing slightly, prompting his friend to continue. "You have another theory, I suppose?"

 

"Did you know the student body at Hogwarts still make the occasional mention of the great Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy rivalry?" Remus didn't bother to hide his smile.

 

"Splendid," Harry rolled his eyes, "yet another facet of my life that can be twisted into something it's not."

 

"No, not necessarily. You two were constant rivals up until the end. Not much you can twist there."

 

"I still don't know what your point is."

 

Remus sat back down at the table, re-heating his cup of tea. "My point is that you yourself admitted to me not too long ago that you can't get him out from under your skin."

 

"Yeah, so?" Harry shrugged, "We run in the same circles and I'd just rather we didn't."

 

"So maybe there's more to your frustration than you realise."

 

Harry's spine stiffened as his defenses were raised. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 

"Look, Harry, even you have to admit that the Draco Malfoy you met at age eleven is not the same Draco Malfoy that you know today."

 

Harry started to pace the length of the kitchen, his pajama bottoms scuffling against the floor. "I don't know him that well _at all_ , do I, and I'd like to keep it that way."

 

"Just enough to bed him, though. Is that it?"

 

Harry was struck silent by the blunt pronouncement.

 

Remus continued, "It's a bit curious that your frustration, as it were, would manifest itself in such a manner, no?"

 

"He started it," Harry said indignantly.

 

"Did he?"

 

"Yes." Harry wasn't even sure if that was the truth, but he suspected not.

 

He saw that expression on Remus' face that said he wasn't buying whatever Harry was trying to sell him.

 

"Look, I don't know who started it, okay? It doesn't bloody matter!" He threw up his arms in frustration.

 

"You want to know what I think?"

 

"Not really, no."

 

"Well too bad, I'm going to tell you anyway," Remus laughed.

 

"Color me shocked." Harry's sarcasm lacked the usual bitter bite as Remus' soft laugh filled the room.

 

"I think that during the time you had to work with him all those years ago, you saw things about him - good things, noble things - that you didn't want to accept because it went against this checklist you had in your mind about the kind of person that Draco Malfoy was."

 

"Oh really," Harry said stoically, leaning one arm against the mantle of the fireplace as he stared stone-faced at Remus.

 

"A part of you respects what he's done, how he's changed, and you can't stand that." Remus crossed his arms, resting them atop the table as he continued to speak, talking to Harry as if he were a student having trouble grasping a concept. "Hating him has become almost habit for you, and you don't know how to let that go."

 

"Doctor Lupin speaks," Harry said with mock reverence.

 

Remus went on, seemingly unfazed by his Harry's rudeness. "I think that it infuriates you that you really don't have good reason to hate him anymore. After all, neither of you are fifteen anymore and he's not slinging around the word Mudblood anymore. Quite the contrary, actually."

 

Harry glared at him, the comment about his maturity making him bristle.

 

"Maybe it's not really Draco that you're hating right now."

 

Harry crossed his arms across his chest, his chin jutted out in defiance.

 

"Maybe the person you really hate," Remus said, pointing at Harry, "is  _yourself_ , but you'd rather take it out on Draco because he's your easiest target. It's old hat for you, isn't it...calling him names, throwing all his past transgressions up in his face to try and make him feel like shit." Remus paused to take a sip of tea, his eyes never leaving Harry's glare. "Maybe you just want him to feel as horrid about himself as you do, Harry."

 

"That- that's not true!" Harry spluttered indignantly, "I haven't done the kinds of things he's done! I haven't done anything wrong!"

 

"Haven't you?" Remus asked softly.

 

Harry could tell that Remus was trying to prevent a full-on fight from erupting, but didn't care enough to stifle his own temper.

 

"What the hell are you on about?"

 

Remus looked at him for a long moment, a wistful and sad expression overtaking his features.

 

"You're not a very good friend, Harry, not since Ron died, and I say that because I love and care about you. I know the kind of person you can be, and this isn't him."

 

Harry's blood boiled over, the harshness of Remus' words hitting his heart like an arrow.

 

"Well fuck off then if you don't like it!" He didn't care if he hurt Remus now. "I'm not changing for anyone."

 

"I'm not asking you to change for me, Harry," Remus stated, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm asking you to change for  _yourself_ , because I  _know_  you're not happy. You can't deny that there's no one else in this world that knows you better than I do, and you haven't been happy in a long time."

 

Harry was contemplating throwing Remus from his house when his former teacher continued.

 

"This is not the life your parents wanted you to have, Harry. They wanted you to be happy, to love and  _be loved_  and not be weighed down by all this hatred and animosity -  _especially_  for yourself."

 

The mention of his parents, spoken by the last man alive who knew them intimately, made his chest ache. Harry let his arms fall to his side, a thousand different emotions swirling around his heart. He didn't know what to say or do, feeling more helpless and lost than he'd ever felt.

 

Harry didn't have to dig too deep in his conscience to realise that he'd made a complete failure of himself in pretty much every way. If not for his name, he'd have been fired from his job as Auror months ago for his recklessness. He was cruel to the people that welcomed him into the wizarding world, shunning them for either loving him too much or not loving him enough. His romantic relationships had failed for reasons so petty even he couldn't justify them.

 

And here he was, yelling at the one man in his life who had picked up the pieces of his heart time and time again and never asked for anything in return.

 

He felt utterly defeated.

 

"Yeah, well you just said I was a bad person so maybe this is my penance." Harry's tone was somber, his voice quiet.

 

"Don't put words into my mouth," Remus chided gently. "I said you weren't a very good friend. You're too wrapped up in this cancer that's eating at you - because that's what hatred will do - and you've neglected the people that have been there for you in the past and are still waiting to be here for you now. People like me."

 

"What do you want from me?" Harry pleaded.

 

"I want you to  _try_. I want you to let go of your guilt, your hatred for Draco, because he certainly doesn't hate you, and how you think you feel about him isn't even justifiable anymore."

 

"How I  _think_  I feel about him?" Harry said wearily, deliberately ignoring the guilt comment.

 

"I'll leave that for you to work out on your own." Remus patted the chair next to him, inviting Harry to sit beside him.

 

"You think you're so smart." Harry retorted, allowing a small smile to blossom.

 

"That's because I am," Remus said, grinning wryly as he lifted the teacup to his lips.

 

Harry walked over to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a box of chocolate biscuits, tossing them onto the table and sitting in the chair next to Remus'. He opened the plastic covering, taking out two biscuits and handing one to his friend.

 

"I guess that's why you're the teacher and I'm the student."

 

"I could assign you homework, you know."

 

"Oh yeah? And what would that be?"

 

"An apology letter to Draco Malfoy."

 

"I'll take the failing grade, thanks."

 

"I've found that often times writing out the thoughts that plague us can be quite cathartic. You wouldn't even need to send the letter."

 

Harry nibbled at the biscuit, eyes staring straight ahead, unfocused and unblinking.

 

"I did that when Sirius died."

 

Harry's head turned sharply to look at Remus, his lips parting slightly in unspoken exclamation.

 

"There were too many things left unsaid. It felt better to get them out. I kept the letter for a while, tucked away in the small box of his possessions that I wanted to keep. I ended up burning it last year. A sort of...sacrificial offering, I suppose. To help me let him go."

 

Harry was silent for several moments, running his fingers along one of the numerous grooves in the tabletop.

 

"I have a confession, Remus."

 

"I certain you have many," he replied, tapping his thumb against the outstretched palm of Harry's hand.

 

"When I was younger, I...well, I had a bit of a crush on Malfoy," Harry blushed, the words rushing from his lips. "It kind of made me hate him even more, if that makes any sense."

 

"It makes perfect sense, Harry." Remus gave his shoulder an amiable pat.

 

"You care to explain it to me, then?"

 

"Maybe next time."

 

Harry knew the words were chosen to convey that there would in fact be a next time, and that Remus wasn't going to give up on him - despite his cruelty.

 

"I'll admit that I didn't think your confession would pertain to Mr Malfoy."

 

Harry gave him a questioning glance.

 

"I thought that it was going to be about Ron."

 

Harry's muscles tensed. "I've nothing to confess where he's concerned."

 

"Oh, Harry," Remus sighed, "my dear boy, you have been carrying around so much guilt about Ron for so long. _That's_ the cancer you need to excise."

 

"Remus-"

 

"We were in the middle of a war. You were all so young, far too young to deal with that kind of stress and pressure. Especially you."

 

Harry picked at a loose thread on the hem of his sleeve, his exhaustion from the past several days finally bearing down on him, despite copious amounts of sleep. His eyes began to burn, and Remus squeezed his hand.

 

"Ron made a mistake, but he didn't _betray_ you. He didn't betray any of us. He was as ill-equipped as you to deal with everything that had been going on."

 

Harry felt a hot tear slide down his cheek, and swiftly wiped it away.

 

Harry heard the scrape of the chair against the floor and then suddenly strong arms were pulling him up and into a crushing hug. Harry felt himself sag against him, crying into the other man's shoulder without shame.

 

"It wasn't your fault, Harry. It wasn't your fault."

 

Harry shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Remus didn't know the whole truth. Didn't know about their fight near the lake that day. About all of the awful things he'd said to Ron. Things he could never take back. It was Harry's fault, and he had no one to blame but himself. And he didn't dare tell anyone, lest the scraps of friendship he had left with those he cared about crumbled to dust once they learned the truth.

 

"You could never have foreseen what would happen. You aren't to blame." Remus's hold on him remained tight, reassuring. Safe.

 

Long moments passed before Harry pulled out of the embrace, feeling some of the weight lifted from his heavy heart, but at the same time deeply ashamed of his breakdown. He didn't deserve Remus's patience. He didn't deserve anyone's. He didn't recognize himself anymore, and he doubted that Hermione would ever speak to him again after what he'd said to her about Ron in that hotel room.

 

Draco wasn't the monster in their circle of friends. Harry was.

 

Remus gave his cheek a gentle pat and then conjured a damp, cold flannel for Harry to wipe his flushed, tear-stained face.

 

Remus conjured a modest stack of parchment, an eagle feather quill, and a pot of black ink. Harry eyed them warily as Remus pushed his chair back and stood, flicking his wand at the lukewarm teapot. Steam began to trickle from the spout as the fragrant scent of bergamot began to fill the kitchen.

 

"Write, Harry. You'll feel better afterward."

 

Harry watched the man who had become his truest friend walk toward the doorway, Remus' genuine smile as he turned to give a small wave goodbye causing something deep inside his heart to break. Harry vowed in that moment to get back the part of himself that he'd lost long ago, someone who deserved friends like Remus.

 

He picked up the quill, letting the silky feather caress the side of his cheek before dipping the sharpened tip into the ink and pulling the parchment toward him.

 

~*~

 

Harry heard the chime of the cathedral clock on the mantle, glancing up and noticing the time. Remus had been gone for nearly five hours, and the setting sun was casting long shadows across the kitchen floor as he stared out the window into the darkening sky. Parchment was scattered across the tabletop, some neatly stacked and displaying the haphazard penmanship of its author, while others were crumpled and piled into the half-empty fruit basket that sat atop the table.

 

"What the hell am I doing?" Harry muttered to no one, running his hands through unkempt locks and throwing the quill down in frustration.

 

His stomach growled as he sat back in the chair. Lunch and supper having been long forgotten, he stood and made his way over to the pantry. Reaching for a loaf of bread from the bin and the jar of strawberry jam, he wondered for the umpteenth time that evening why he was even bothering to heed Remus' advice about writing his thoughts down. He felt a bit silly the more that he thought about it. What was he, some teenage girl writing down his feelings in a diary?

 

He knew that the fact it  _was_  Remus was answer enough. Remus had written a letter to Sirius after he died. Couldn’t Harry do the same?

 

Harry's respect for his friend was immeasurable. It was how he used to feel about Professor Dumbledore, before the Headmaster let him down with all his secrets and half-truths. Remus was the one person he could always turn to, and the one person who would always be honest with him, because he never underestimated Harry's ability to deal with the truth. Everyone Harry knew - Hermione, Mr and Mrs Weasley, even Professor McGonagall - tiptoed around the truth where he was concerned. Remus was the only person in his life that he could count on to tell him exactly what he was thinking.

 

Well, Remus and Draco Malfoy.

 

Slathering the toast with a healthy spoonful of jam, Harry sat back down and looked at the scattered mess before him. "This is pointless," he muttered through a mouthful and slumping further in the chair. He pulled forward a fresh piece of parchment, picked up his quill, and wrote the only two words he could say to the one person he truly regretted hurting that night at the hotel. Harry had never been a man of many words, so why pretend otherwise?

 

_I'm sorry._

_\- H._

Folding up the parchment and wiping off the tiny smear of jam he'd gotten on the corner, he addressed the letter and stood up from the table to find his faithful owl.

 

He needed to make things right with Hermione first before he could even think about sorting out his feelings for Draco Malfoy.

 

~*~

 

Hermione was sitting in the oversized floral chaise by the window of her and Dean's bedroom, sipping a mug of warm milk when she heard the familiar  _tap tap tap_  on the glass.

 

"Who on earth would be owling me at this time of night?" she mused, hoping the insistent tapping wouldn't wake her lightly-snoring husband.

 

Setting down her mug and walking over toward the window, she immediately recognized the bright white feathers of the snowy owl and opened the latch.

 

"Hi there, Hedwig. What do you have for me, girl?"

 

Hedwig hooted softly, as if aware of the sleeping man in the bed, and held out the parchment tied to her right leg. Hermione pulled off the rolled up parchment and opened it, frowning slightly as she read and re-read the few words it contained.

 

"Stay a moment, Hedwig, I need you to deliver this for me," she said quietly before turning toward the small bedside table and pulling her wand from the drawer. Using the spell she'd learned back in her Order days to copy handwriting, she charmed her name from the front and changed the recipient and destination.

 

"I need you to take this to Draco Malfoy in York," she said as she re-attached the letter to Hedwig's leg. "I'm all out of treats at the moment, but I'm sure you'd rather have whatever he's got anyway," she added, patting her head affectionately before sending her off.

 

Hermione closed the window and sighed heavily. As angry as she still was with him for their row at the hotel, she hoped Harry would eventually forgive her for what she had just done.

 

~*~

 

Harry was covered in dirt. It was caked on his knees, smudged on his cheeks, and embedded underneath his fingernails. His back garden used to be exactly that - a magnificent little garden with lots of wildflowers and even a few tomato plants. After Remus moved out two summers ago to return to Hogwarts as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, the plants hadn't stood much of a chance. Harry hadn't even bothered to dig up the shrivelling plants, instead letting them die and rot back into the ground.

 

When Harry awoke that morning, he felt a small measure of peace for having apologised to Hermione, even if it was only by letter. His mind was slightly less muddled after his talk with Remus, and he'd gotten it into his head that he wanted to have that garden back again. Part of him loved the solitude of living alone, but the other part of him genuinely missed having Remus around. The house had felt less like a home since his friend had left, and maybe by putting some life back into the garden it would find its way back into the house. Into _his_ life.

 

Part of him hoped that he would hear from Hermione today, but another part thought it best if a little more time passed. Time for him to sort things out in his mind a little more.

 

The sun beat down against his back, and a line of sweat had soaked through his t-shirt as he crouched over the many weeds that had invaded the patch of earth where pansies used to bloom. He didn't hear the approaching footsteps as he tugged at them, cursing himself under his breath for letting it get so bad, but when a crumpled piece of parchment landed in the pile of dirt in front of him, he turned his head to see Draco Malfoy standing behind him.

 

His arms were crossed, the sleeves of his pale blue silk shirt pulled tight across his chest. Harry slowly sat back on his heels and gaped up at him, shock and confusion mingling in his mind at the unexpected visit.

 

"Go to hell, Potter," was all Harry heard before Malfoy promptly turned around and began walking away.

 

He looked down at the crumpled paper again, snatching it up and smoothing it against his thigh to see the familiar words that he'd written the previous night. It was the apology he'd written to Hermione. He looked up again, seeing Draco turn the corner of his house and disappear from sight as his confusion turned to revelation.

 

"Malfoy, wait!" he heard himself call out, knowing Draco wouldn't be able to Apparate from the property due to the wards. He scrambled up from the ground to try and catch up with him.

 

He ran around the corner toward the front of his house just as Draco stepped onto the front pathway, grabbing his elbow and stepping in front of him.

 

"Wait, _Draco_ , please," he said, panting slightly.

 

Malfoy wrenched his elbow from Harry's grasp. "Don't touch me, Potter. Don't you ever fucking touch me again," he seethed, walking around Harry.

 

"Where are you going?" Harry called out, rushing to step in front of him and block his departure.

 

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm moving to Edinburgh." Malfoy sneered, trying to push Harry out of his way. " _Move_."

 

"Why did...where did you get this?" Harry stuttered, holding his ground and waving the worn parchment between them. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but wanted the other man to confirm it nonetheless.

 

"I'm not playing games with you, Potter. You know damn well where it came from." He shoved Harry aside. "It was your bloody owl that woke me up at the God awful hour of six this morning to deliver it."

 

"I...I didn't-" Harry started, before being interrupted.

 

"And had I known that you were delivering some half-arsed apology, I wouldn't have opened the bloody window to begin with," he said, starting to walk away again. "Consider it a gift I bothered to show up here in person to tell you where you can shove your quaint little letter, because you won't be seeing my face again if I can help it."

 

"I didn't write this," Harry said suddenly.

 

Malfoy stopped, turning to glare at him.

 

"I mean, I did, but...I didn't send it to you."

 

"How did a coward like you ever end up in Gryffindor?" he spat. "You're pathetic, Potter."

 

"But it's true! I..." Harry struggled for the right words, "I _am_ sorry. I'm...sorry."

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Well that just makes me so happy that I feel the need to make daisy chains and sing folk songs of celebration."

 

"You don't have to be so nasty, you know-" Harry clenched his teeth, his irritation rising but trying to bite it back for both their sakes. "I said I was sorry."

 

"Let me clue you in on a little something, Potter," Malfoy patronised, moving to stand close to Harry and holding his gaze. "Saying you're sorry doesn't miraculously make things all right, especially when the reason behind your apology makes you an even bigger bastard."

 

"Look, I didn't send this to you. I _wrote_ it, yes, but I sent it to...someone else _._ " _Someone who will be hearing from me later_ , he thought. "But I'm...I'm not all that upset that they ended up sending it to you."

 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes sceptically.

 

"Because I...Remus said that..." Harry started, stumbling over his words. "I'm trying to..."

 

"Spit it out, Potter."

 

"Can we at least go inside?" Harry offered. "I really...I'm filthy and I'd like to clean up a bit if we're going to talk."

 

Malfoy looked down the street as if contemplating his escape. He looked back at Harry, grey eyes shielded with distrust.

 

"I'm asking for fifteen minutes," Harry tried once more.

 

"I don't owe you anything," Malfoy said quietly.

 

"You're right, you don't."

 

"If you make me miss my train," he said as he led the way around the corner and into Harry's front door, "I'll burn your already pathetic garden to a crisp."

 

Malfoy stepped over the threshold into the living room, and Harry could tell by the slight shudder along his back that he'd sensed the wards Remus had set up before he'd moved out. There were several layers of protection around the house, and Harry knew Malfoy had to walk half a kilometre just to get to his home because of the Apparition block. Voldemort was dead, to be sure, but Harry still had enough enemies to warrant caution.

 

"You're really leaving town?" Harry asked as Malfoy leaned against the back of the soft leather chair that sat in front of the fireplace.

 

"As if you didn't know," Malfoy said.

 

"No, really, I didn't. I don't really..." Harry fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt, flakes of dirt falling onto the floor. "I don't talk to a lot of people anymore."

 

Malfoy sighed, his silence making Harry uncomfortable.

 

"Right, well, I'll just be a few minutes. Um, there's tea in the cupboard in the kitchen if you..." Harry started, voice trailing off at the impatient glare he was receiving. "I'll just be a few minutes."

 

~*~

 

Harry bolted up the stairs, taking two at a time and slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. He exhaled deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath for the past ten minutes and was finally able to breathe again. Catching his hopelessly filthy reflection in the mirror, he opted for what would be the quickest shower of his life. He turned on the tap and stepped under the hot stream, wondering what he was going to say to Malfoy when he went back downstairs.

 

He wasn't sure if he was upset with Hermione or begrudgingly grateful for forcing the inevitable. Even if he never saw Draco Malfoy again, attempting to leave something that monumental unresolved would have been laughable at best. His thoughts paused at the idea that his night with Malfoy had actually morphed into a monumental event in his mind, and Remus' words about how the Slytherin always remained a focal point for Harry echoed strongly in his memory.

 

And perhaps it was time to stop referring to him always as Malfoy. He'd watched the other man's face as he came, for Christ's sake, surely that warranted a progression to using the man's given name.

 

Rinsing the last of the soap from his hair, he turned off the shower and quickly towel-dried his body, leaving soggy footprints on the carpet as he walked to his bedroom. He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a slightly wrinkled blue oxford. Walking down the steps toward the kitchen, he finished buttoning his shirt. Harry didn't notice the soft sound of paper rustling until he walked into the room and looked up - to see Draco sitting at the kitchen table and thumbing through the small piles of paper that were spread out on the top.

 

His colour paled as he watched Draco read one of the pages, and Harry cursed softly at his own stupidity for having forgotten the mess from the night before.

 

"I see you've been busy," Draco said bitterly.

 

"It's not what it looks like," Harry said weakly, taking a step forward.

 

"Oh, I think it's exactly what it looks like, Potter."

 

Draco looked up at him dejectedly, and Harry felt something in his chest constrict.

 

"Was this what you were going to send me?"

 

"No," Harry barely choked out.

 

"So these were all just for your own personal amusement, then?"

 

"No."

 

"Don't you have anything else to fucking say to me?" Draco shouted, standing up and slamming both hands against the table.

 

Harry watched as three pieces of parchment, covered in vitriol about the person standing before him, fluttered to the floor.

 

"It was just...I was trying to work out..." Harry struggled, frustration winning out in the end. "What the hell were you doing reading my private things in the first place?" Harry's face flamed with humiliation as he remembered some of the things he'd written down the night before.

 

"You left them out for anyone and everyone to see, Potter!" Draco said incredulously. "You sodding well directed me in here to make tea, _for fuck's sake_ , and you're surprised that I saw them? Did you think I wouldn't notice my name on every single bloody page?"

 

"Would you just let me explain?!" Harry pleaded.

 

"I can hardly wait," Draco said, his hands resting against his hips defensively.

 

"What happened...at the hotel, I mean...it made me think of…a lot of things." Harry ran his fingers through his damp hair. "About us, I mean. Well, you and me. The way we always fight and..."

 

"So you thought you'd write down every little thing that makes you hate my guts?" Draco said sarcastically.

 

"No, I..." Harry flustered, "it started out as a letter but I couldn't send it because I...I still don't know what the hell I want to say!" He threw his hands up in defeat.

 

"That much is obvious," Draco sneered.

 

"I'd had a fight with Hermione earlier that night," Harry continued quietly. "I sent that apology letter to her."

 

"And she forwarded it to me. How charming."

 

"But I'm okay with her doing that." Harry added quickly. "I mean, I should have said it to you anyway. That I'm sorry, I mean. For what happened. I was going to, I just…"

 

Draco walked past Harry through the kitchen and back toward the front door, not even pausing to look at him.

 

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, genuinely surprised. "I thought we were going to talk?"

 

"I don't have anything else to say to you, Potter," Draco replied, still not looking at him as he reached for the doorknob, "and I sure as hell don't want to hear any more of this bullshit you're feeding me."

 

"You can't go yet!" Harry pleaded.

 

"Why not?" Draco shot back, glaring at him and not bothering to mask his disappointment.

 

Harry stood there, mouth opening and closing as he tried to articulate what he wanted to say.

 

"Time's up, Potter," Draco said, opening the front door to leave.

 

"Because that night changed things for me." Harry blurted out, walking closer to Draco and aching to reach out and touch him. "It changed...lots of things. Everything."

 

Harry saw the colour drain from Draco's face; the icy stare pierced him as a fist grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, only to shove back angrily. Harry stumbled from the force of Draco's push, losing his balance and falling backwards to the floor.

 

"Well, that's just fucking  _brilliant_ , Potter, because it changed  _nothing_  for me," Draco seethed, his cheeks flushing an angry crimson. "That is what I've felt for a long time for you, _that_ is what I've wanted for fucking _ever_ from you, and so pardon me if I'm not particularly sympathetic to your little dilemma! You're  _sorry_  you slept with me? You're upset because of what happened that night and you think it's  _my_  fault? Well, I'm definitely upset about what happened and it's  _absolutely_  your fault!"

 

Draco clenched his fists, resisting the urge to strike out as he continued softly, reigning in his temper.

 

"You took everything I gave you, everything I  _felt_  for you, and then tossed me aside."

 

"I'm not...I never said...I'm not sorry I slept with you!" Harry tried to explain.

 

"Then what the fuck are you sorry for?" Draco shouted, his anger finally boiling over.

 

"For hurting you, all right?" Harry cried out. "For being such an arsehole to you and to Hermione and to Remus and for never telling Sirius what he meant to me and for _killing Ron_!"

 

Harry choked back a sob, covering his face with his hands and bending his knees against his chest.

 

"What?" Draco swallowed thickly, taking one step backward and staring down at him.

 

"It's my fault he's dead. I wanted him to disappear, I wanted..." Harry curled up tighter, wrapping his arms around his legs and rocking gently on the floor. Apparently his breakdown in front of Remus had only taken a momentary pause, and was now determined to resume in front of the one person Harry never wanted to break down in front of. "I wanted for a brief moment…for him to be _gone_ and then he _died_...because I..." Harry looked up at Draco, glasses slightly askew and bottom lip trembling with restraint. "It's my fault."

 

Draco walked toward him, kneeling hesitantly and placing a tentative hand on Harry's shoulder. "Potter, that's-"

 

"Don't you fucking tell me it's not my fault!" Harry snapped. "I know it's my fault! All my life I've made things happen just because I wanted them to and Snape was right, I do deserve everything I get because _it's my own fucking fault_!"

 

"Harry," Draco started, sitting back on his heels and removing his hand, "You had-"

 

"You don't know what it's like. You don't know what it feels like to wake up every morning and wish you were dead but not having the guts to do anything about it." He wiped his sleeve roughly across his cheeks to dry reluctant tears as he shifted to sit cross-legged on the floor. "You don't know what it's like to know that everybody who has ever cared about you is either dead or has gotten hurt only because they _know_  you. My parents, Sirius, Hagrid, Snape...Ron."

 

"No, I don't know what that's like," Draco admitted softly.

 

"You don't understand, Draco, he-"

 

"Is this because you fought with him the day that he died?" Draco asked, interrupting him.

 

Harry looked up sharply, mouth falling open in shock. He hadn't told anyone.

 

"I was at the corner of the castle wall near the edge of the lake looking for various plants that Severus needed for a potion. I heard everything."

 

Harry shut his eyes at the memory of the harsh words shared between him and Ron that day. Words that he could never take back. Pain that Harry had buried long ago – not the pain of betrayal but the pain of guilt – began to spill forth, and he choked back another sob."

 

"Ron would still be alive if I hadn't-"

 

"Don't," Draco interrupted him forcefully, placing his hand on the back of Harry's neck and forcing him to look up. "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened to him. It wasn't your fault."

 

"If I hadn't yelled at him, then he would have come back into the castle with me! He wouldn't have wandered off to God knows where and gotten himself killed." Harry was sobbing openly now, unable to stop. Someone else knew now, and maybe they could absolve him in some small measure of the crushing guilt that threatened to take his breath away. "I was just so angry already, not even at him, just _everything_ , and I was so fucking tired of having to be this…this _soldier_ in a war I never wanted. What Ron did, it wasn't even…even that horrible, just a _stupid_ mistake, and I treated him like a traitor. He's dead because of me, Draco, _it's all my fault_."

 

Draco reached out and gently removed Harry's glasses, setting them on the nearby table and moving to mimic Harry's posture, their knees barely touching. "You can't know what would have happened."

 

"And it's _never_ over. People think that just because Voldemort is gone that everything is okay but _it's not_. It's not okay, Draco," Harry looked up at him imploringly. "Sirius is still dead, and every time I look at Remus I think about what I took from him. His Sirius,  _our_ Sirius...he's gone because of me. _Because I fucking lived_. Because I couldn't follow directions and just use the damned mirror! My parents shouldn't have sacrificed themselves, they should have sacrificed me."

 

"How can you say such a thing? Your parents-"

 

"It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter because I wouldn't care because I wouldn't  _be here_  to care and it wouldn't hurt so fucking much."

 

Draco listened to Harry sniffle a few times before leaning forward and nudging his arm lightly. "You really get off on feeling guilty, don't you? I mean, it's like a drug to you, isn't it?"

 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Harry glared. He'd just poured his soul out to the other man, and this is how he responds?

 

"It's pretty obvious to anyone who knows you well enough that you love taking blame." Draco's tone was cautious. "It's pretty condescending to everyone who has helped you out in the past, you realise."

 

Harry blinked, lips parting slightly as his brow furrowed in hurt confusion.

 

"Look, Pott-  _Harry_ , I know that it's always been you against Voldemort. I know that every time you've had to face him, it always ended up being just the two of you, face to face. But you had a lot of help getting there. Ron, Hermione, Remus, Dumbledore...even me." Draco rested his chin against his palm, feigning contemplation, "Especially old Dumbledore, when you really think about it."

 

"I don't..."

 

"I'm not necessarily saying that you should spread the blame around, because Merlin knows you've got enough pent up resentment for yourself, let alone another dozen people, but quit acting like everything from Snape's murder to the overpriced cost of chocolate frogs is your fault."

 

Harry shook his head, looking down at Draco's hand that was now resting against his foot. "You don't-"

 

"Oh blah blah blah _I don't understand_ , yeah I know that speech. You want to know whose fault it is that Ron died? Try blaming the person who murdered him. You want to know whose fault it is that Hagrid died? Try blaming the two giants who beat him to death. As for Snape, well that person has already been blamed and killed for it."

 

Lucius' name floated unspoken in the air between them, Draco's eyes showing no sign of loss or regret for his father's fate.

 

Harry rubbed harshly at his eyes. "I was directly involved. I was the target, the-"

 

"That makes you bloody unlucky, Harry, but that doesn't make you a murderer. There's a big difference."

 

Sighing heavily, he looked at Draco as a surprisingly comfortable silence surrounded them. Draco's words didn't anger him like he thought they would. They…made sense, as embarrassing as that fact was. Harry knew he was a mess, and it was more than a little strange that it was Draco Malfoy's rather blunt way of putting things that made Harry start to make sense of some things. Draco had never held him on a pedestal, to be sure. And that made Draco's opinion suddenly very worthwhile.

 

"Why are you being so...nice?"

 

Harry's fingers brushed softly against Draco's, neither of them moving as they rested delicately against the warm skin.

 

"Am I?" Draco speculated in mock confusion before allowing a small grin.

 

Harry felt some of the tension of the past hour leave him, and he gave in to the impulse to run his finger down the back of Draco's hand as he looked him in the eye.

 

"Did you mean what you said earlier?"

 

"I've said a lot of things, Harry, you'll need to be more specific."

 

"What you said about, well...about that night," he looked down at their hands resting side by side before cocking his head and meeting Draco's gaze once more. "About you wanting it, I mean."

 

Draco leaned back, their fingers breaking contact. "None of that matters now."

 

"Why not?" Harry sensed the abrupt change in the other man, suddenly desperate to bring back that warmth.

 

"Because it doesn't, Potter."

 

"But you said-"

 

"Forget what I said," Draco interrupted icily.

 

"What if I don't want to?" Harry asked, more sullenly than he'd intended.

 

"You're awfully used to always getting your way, aren't you?"

 

"Yes."

 

Draco rolled his eyes but said nothing. Harry saw him relax again, those long, pale fingers smoothing out the linen trousers and brushing away non-existent lint.

 

"Did you...did you read everything?" He ventured, hoping Draco's defences didn't rise once more.

 

"I read enough."

 

Harry bit his lip before continuing, "Did you read the bit about sixth year? About the...the questions I had?"

 

"What I read seemed pretty cut and dry." Draco's tone remained impassive.

 

"Seamus told me in sixth year that you were gay."

 

"Did he?"

 

"Yeah, and I hated you for that."

 

"Colour me surprised," Draco said flatly.

 

"No, I mean, I...I didn't hate you because you were gay, obviously," Harry heard himself chuckle nervously. "I hated that you...that you didn't care who knew. And I hated you because..."

 

"Because why?" Draco interrupted; sounding affronted and looking at Harry as though he couldn't believe the stupid Gryffindor was about to start talking about why he hated Draco all over again.

 

"Because the minute I found out, I...wanted you."

 

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Draco replied bitingly.

 

Harry ignored the hurt tone, anxious to explain. "It made me furious that you were able to just...see whomever you wanted and never had to worry about, well, you know...gossip."

 

"Oh, trust me," Draco laughed bitterly. "We Slytherins had our own private rumour mill."

 

"But your being gay didn't matter," Harry implored. "It wasn't something that would make front-page news on the  _Daily Prophet_. It wasn't one more thing that made you different, because nobody cared what you did or who you were with."

 

"Thanks a lot, Potter." Draco said dully.

 

"You know what I mean." Harry shifted his body forward just enough to rest his hand against Draco's calf, unable to resist being so close and not touching him. "Think about the headlines if I had been outed while we were still at Hogwarts. I only got lucky that the press lost interest in me after I'd served their purpose and killed Voldemort. My being gay ended up buried in the back pages," he continued with a crooked smile, "disappointing I'm sure to the lousy sod who thought he'd get rich off of selling his story."

 

Draco remained stoically silent.

 

"Did you mean what you said?" Harry tried again.

 

"Why does it matter now, Potter?" Draco asked, exasperated by the repeated question he so desperately wanted to avoid. "Why do you want to know?"

 

"I just..."

 

Harry's gaze flitted to Draco's mouth, remembering how it had felt against his own lips. He wasn't about to try and figure out what was happening between them, or why Draco was still there with him, and summarily decided that thinking was overrated. Harry leaned forward, almost closing the gap between them when Draco turned his head, the hand against Harry's chest lightly pushing him away.

 

"Potter, no," he said beseechingly.

 

"Why not?" Harry asked, leaning forward once again.

 

"Because I said no, that's why," Draco said forcefully, standing up and brushing off his trousers.

 

Harry looked up at him, eyes wide. "You're leaving?"

 

"I've already missed my train to Edinburgh," Draco replied, handing Harry his glasses but avoiding his stare. "I need to go home and make new arrangements."

 

Harry put his glasses back on, scrambling to rise as Draco reached the door and opened it, letting in a gust of warm evening air.

 

"Don't go," Harry said meekly.

 

Draco turned to face him, crossing his arms against his chest. "And why not?"

 

"Because I want you to stay."

 

"You can't always have what you want."

 

"Draco, please, I don't-"

 

"Don't what, Potter?" he interrupted loudly. "Don't want me to walk out that door and out of your life for good? You don't want me to leave until you've gotten everything out of your system? And where does that leave me?" Draco gestured, placing his hand over his heart. "What does that leave me with in the end?"

 

"Hopefully with a friend."

 

Harry shyly reached for Draco's hand as he took half a step forward.

 

"You're an absolute mess, Potter. Your emotions are heightened and…" Draco sighed. "We'd kill each other."

 

"I don't think we would."

 

Harry gently traced a figure eight along Draco's outstretched palm, keeping their gazes locked and hoping Draco wouldn't look away again.

 

"I can't," Draco said, his tone fragile.

 

"Why not?"

 

"Dammit, Harry, it's hard enough, don't you understand?" Draco pulled his hand back, placing it in his pocket protectively. "Can you look past yourself for one bloody second and see that you're not the only one involved here?"

 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, his arguments cut off before they could be voiced.

 

"I've sat here for the past hour and listened to you talk about how horrible your life is," Draco said in a detached tone Harry hadn't heard from him since they were kids, "All about how you never get the things that you want. Well here's a newsflash for you, Potter, very few people get what they want."

 

"But you said that-"

 

"I know what I fucking said!" Draco shouted.

 

Harry stood silently, resignation washing over him as the realisation began to dawn on him that he wasn't going to win this battle.

 

Draco continued bleakly. "Yes, I wanted you - any way that I could get you - but you and I, we don't...we don't fit. I thought we did, that maybe we could, but we can't. We  _don't_."

 

Harry looked down, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

 

"You want to know what hurts, Potter? What hurts is that...the entire time we were..." Draco fumbled, scowling at his own hesitance, "I bloody well  _knew_  that it was nothing to you. I could see it in your eyes and the way you could barely even look at me even though you were  _fucking_  me."

 

Harry felt himself shiver at the harshness of Draco's words; the deep-seated hurt evident in his voice.

 

"And I was stupid enough to let myself believe that I mattered to you in that moment," he continued. "But you set the record straight soon thereafter, didn't you. You were apparently so disgusted you couldn't even open your mouth to tell me how much you regretted what had just happened," Draco let out a bitter laugh, "You just sat there with your back to me, without so much as even a _'Thanks for getting me off, Malfoy_.' The whores on Knockturn Alley get treated better than you treated me that night.  _That's_  what hurts."

 

Harry swallowed thickly, unable to look up at Draco and the hurt expression he knew he'd find there. "I never meant to make you feel that way."

 

"Yeah, well, you did."

 

Harry waited for Draco to walk out the open door, surprised when moments passed and the blond remained.

 

Looking up, he saw that Draco was looking through the living room toward the kitchen, toward the table where those stacks of parchment lay scattered.

 

He stepped into Draco's line of sight, a spark of determination pushing him to ask once more. "I want to try to...to…well, I just want to _try_ ," Harry remembered Remus's words from yesterday. "With you."

 

Draco's laugh was caustic. "Try _what_ with me?"

 

"How about being friends? You were the one asking for a truce not so long ago."

 

"You just have a never-ending supply of nerve, don't you." It wasn't a question.

 

"Yes," Harry said plaintively, gently pulling Draco away from the door and shutting it behind him.

 

"And what happens if you fail?"

 

"I won't." Harry reached for his hand once more, holding it firmly and once more tracing the same figure eight path against Draco's palm as he continued. "I mean, I can't guarantee I won't ever say the wrong thing, or do something stupid, but...but you asked me to be your friend twelve years ago and I said no. I'm asking you to give me another chance."

 

"You've had twelve years of chances," Draco said doubtfully, but not pulling his hand from Harry's grasp.

 

"Then what could one more hurt?"

 

"It could hurt _me_ , that's what, and I'm not sure I could take that again. Not from you."

 

"Please just hear me out. Just give me a chance to...to convince you that you don't  _need_  to run away. _Don't go_."

 

Draco looked down at the two hands holding his. "What would have happened, Potter, if Hermione had never given me that letter?"

 

"I...I'm not sure."

 

"That's pretty telling, don't you think?" Draco asked sardonically.

 

"I mean, it would have only delayed the inevitable." Harry continued the caress.

 

"The inevitable what?"

 

"You, me...this." Harry stepped closer. "Face it, Draco, we can't rid ourselves of each other."

 

"A sobering thought at best."

 

"Stay."

 

"For how long?" Draco asked quietly.

 

"Until we learn to put up with each other," Harry answered hopefully.

 

Draco shifted his weight against the doorjamb, "I won't stand for any of your shit, you realise."

 

Harry couldn't stop himself from smiling at the obvious surrender, despite the weary tone. "I wouldn't want you to."

 

"And I'll be brutally honest if I think you're being a git," Draco added more arrogantly.

 

"I'd count on it."

 

"Just _friends_."

 

"Just friends," Harry grinned at him, cautiously triumphant, and met Draco's wary gaze openly. He was satisfied with the willingness to try this second chance at friendship, even if deep down he didn't think it would always remain a mere friendship. Draco slid his hand from Harry's grasp, and Harry was flooded with a sudden awkwardness as he realised he had no idea where to go from here.

 

"Speaking of calling you on your shit," Draco abruptly interjected, straightening his left cuff and assuming the normal yet slightly superior tone that Harry was used to, "I've been here for well over an hour and you haven't even offered me a drink yet." Draco scoffed, "What kind of host are you?"

 

A lousy one, Harry laughed, following Draco into the kitchen. He paused before the table, taking in the piles of discarded parchments. "A drink. Yes. But let me clean up the rubbish, first, okay?"

 

Later that night, after walking Draco to the edge of the wards and watching him Apparate back home, Harry threw the parchments into the fire.

 

~*~

Seven Years Later

 

"You're up early."

 

The voice was low in his ear, and Harry leaned back into the comforting embrace, strong arms winding their way around his middle as a soft kiss was placed on the nape of his neck.

 

"I wanted to head back to that trinket shop in town before the party," Harry answered, keeping his attention focused on the eggs he was scrambling up for their breakfast. "I thought I'd get Mina the music box we saw last weekend."

 

"Don't forget that I like my bacon extra crispy," Draco said distractedly as he peered over Harry's shoulder, observing his lover's culinary skills.

 

"I've been making you omelets for four years, Draco, I think I know what you like," he laughed.

 

Draco licked and nibbled at the sensitive spot just behind Harry's right ear, whispering lustily, "Mmmm, yes, you do."

 

Wiping his hands on the blue gingham washcloth, Harry turned around in Draco's arms, reaching down and playfully grabbing the blond's arse. Harry kissed him firmly, loving the tiny sigh that escaped Draco's lips as he parted them. His tongue teased and tasted, warmth flooding him as slim, skillful fingers made their way up Harry's spine to tangle in his hair.

 

Harry broke the kiss far too soon for both their liking, knowing they had no time for early morning distractions that day.

 

"We need to be at Hermione and Dean's by eleven-thirty. The picnic starts at noon."

 

Draco pulled away, heading to the pantry and pulling out the coffee grinder. "Yes, I suppose they would need to hold the party outside - that child has so many toys that they've likely run out of room inside the house thanks to you."

 

"We're her godparents! It's our duty to spoil her," Harry laughed, whisking the eggs and liberally sprinkling them with pepper just before pouring the mixture into the frying pan.

 

"Something I'm sure her parents love having to measure up to. She'll want to sleep in that tiara you got her, you realise."

 

Harry didn't bother hiding his accomplished smile. "Make some coffee, will you, and stop criticising my future parenting skills."

 

Draco turned on the grinder, giving Harry's body a lingering look as he watched him slice bread for toast.

"Don't forget we've got interviews tomorrow morning for the head chef position."

 

"You, Mr Malfoy, will be doing the taste-testing."

 

" _We'll_  be doing the taste-testing, thank you very much," Draco stressed, turning on the coffee maker. "I refuse to be the only one walking away with indigestion from too much food."

 

"It's more your sort that stay at Chewton Glen these days anyway. Toss me the salt?" Harry asked as Draco opened the corner cupboard for his boyfriend's favourite coffee mug.

 

"Are you implying that I have turned our hotel into a haven for snobs?" Draco asked in mock indignation, tossing the shaker into Harry's easy grasp.

 

"You said it, not me," Harry grinned.

 

"Just because you're satisfied with beans on toast does not mean that people don't appreciate the finer foods. Caviar is a perfectly acceptable garnish for smoked salmon rosettes."

 

Harry made a sick face, sticking his tongue out in disgust at the memory of the last meal from the hotel restaurant that Draco insisted he try, which earned him a playful whipping from the kitchen towel.

 

"Have you wrapped Mina's gift yet?"

 

"No, I planned on bribing you to do it for me," Draco said matter-of-factly, placing the plates and coffee mugs on the table and arranging the silverware.

 

"Sexual favours?" Harry joked, spooning out eggs onto Draco's place setting and setting down the toast.

 

"If that's all your plebeian brain can devise."

 

"I'm a simple man with simple needs."

 

"Not too particular about which chair I'm bent over, hmm?" Draco sat down, pouring cream into Harry's coffee mug then filling it with the too-strong brew.

 

"As long as it holds up under the repeated strain."

 

Draco waited for Harry to sit down before starting his breakfast, a courtesy that Harry had always given him when they ate breakfast together. He smiled at the familiar way Harry slathered his toast with jam, using the bottom of the spoon to spread the fruit and then popping the spoon curved side down in his mouth to enjoy the sticky remnants.

 

They continued their small talk while they ate, discussing possible renovations for the hotel's ballroom over their eggs and coffee. Though their working relationship had been thriving for longer than their intimate relationship, they only permitted themselves to discuss work during breakfast or while at the hotel, a rule they'd come up with when they first decided to buy the hotel in the early stages of their friendship.

 

Harry had come up with the idea after quitting his job as Auror - an action unplanned and unexpected by everyone including Harry himself. He'd read in the  _Prophet_  that the same hotel where their new beginning had started was up for sale; the Muggle owners wishing to turn it over to the Magical community after retirement since the majority of their guests came from the wizarding world. Harry's desire for something completely unrelated to Death Eaters or the Ministry prompted the spontaneous purchase, and he'd shown up on Draco's doorstep early one morning to cajole Draco into abandoning his own desk job in the Illegal Potions division and joining up with him.

 

Draco had been sceptical at first, and it had taken an additional three weeks before he decided to give the venture a chance. They divided the duties to by what suited their natural talents, Harry taking over most of the business side while Draco dealt with the aesthetic aspects of the job. Once they'd started working together, the increased contact had accelerated a track they both realized they were on - one of developing their genuine friendship into something more…something not at all unwelcome by that point.

 

During the often emotionally charged transition from devoted friends and committed business partners to equally devoted and passionate lovers, they'd had to learn to draw lines. One particularly heated row over dinner regarding whether or not to continue accepting Muggle patrons was when the breakfast rule had come into existence. Work would stay at work, with this one exception, a rule created to lighten the strain on the then-fragile friendship.

 

"You should wait and hold off on that trip into town. Save the music box for Christmas," Draco said as Harry downed the last drops of his coffee.

 

"And why should I do that?"

 

Standing, Draco took both of Harry's hands in his and pulled him to his feet, guiding Harry backward into the adjoining living room and leering lasciviously.

 

Leaning against the soft leather chair by the fireplace, he pulled Harry close and whispered, "Because if Mina's tiara is ever going to get wrapped in time, I need to payment in advance for services rendered, don't I?"

 

The chair held up very well.

 


End file.
